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HOWARDS END 


. ? v 
f 

Er Mr FORSTER 

AUTHOR OP “ A ROOM WITH A VIEW,” ETC. 


“ Only connect . . 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 
Cbe IKnickerbocfeer press 
1910 


Copyright, 1910 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


Exchange 

MUrary of Supreme Council 

Aug IO, 1940 


ttbc ftntcfcerbocfter press, flew JflorK 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

Helen’s Letters 

i 

II. 

Aunt Juley Interferes 

6 

III. 

At Cross Purposes 

14 

IV. 

The Wilcox Episode . 

26 

V. 

The Concert at Queen’s Hall . 

36 

VI. 

Leonard and Jacky 

53 

VII. 

The New Neighbours . 

66 

VIII. 

Margaret Takes the Bull by the 
Horns ..... 

76 

IX. 

A Luncheon-Party 

88 

X. 

Christmas Shopping 

95 

XI. 

A Surprising Request 

106 

XII. 

The Situation Changes 

124 

XIII. 

A Mysterious Caller 

131 

XIV. 

The Mystery Explained 

140 


iii 


IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER 


XV. 

A Special Case . 


*53 

XVI. 

The Schlegels Apply their 
Theories .... 

1 68 

XVII. 

A Surprise for Margaret 


182 

XVIII. 

“Yes” or “No” 


191 

XIX. 

Margaret Tells Helen 


203 

XX. 

An Evening on the Parade 


214 

XXI. 

An Interlude 


224 

XXII. 

Two Letters 


226 

XXIII. 

Margaret Sees the Estate 


235 

XXIV. 

Howards End Idealised 


246 

XXV. 

On the Way to Shropshire . 


252 

XXVI. 

A Disclosure 


265 

XXVII. 

Two Kinds of People . 


285 

XXVIII. 

The Core of the Question . 


293 

XXIX. 

A Sudden Departure . 


298 

XXX. 

Helen Consults with Tibby 


306 

XXXI. 

Established in Ducie Street 


314 

XXXII. 

A Piece of News 


321 


Contents 


v 


CHAPTER PAGE 


XXXIII. 

Margaret’s Second Visit to the 
Estate ..... 

326 

XXXIV. 

Helen’s “ Madness” . 

337 

XXXV. 

The Trap Is Set .... 

349 

XXXVI. 

The Scandal Is out 

354 

XXXVII. 

Helen’s Whim .... 

358 

XXXVIII. 

A Quarrel ..... 

37i 

XXXIX. 

What Tibby Knows 

379 

XL. 

Under the Wych-Elm . 

382 

XLI. 

A Tragedy ..... 

388 

XLII. 

The Most Important Witness 

400 

XLIII. 

The Easiest Way out 

406 

XLIV. 

Margaret’s Conquest 

413 


HOWARDS END 


CHAPTER I 

Helen’s Letters 

One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister. 

“Howards End, 

“ Tuesday . 

“Dearest Meg, 

“ It is n’t going to be what we expected. It is old and 
little, and altogether delightful — red brick. We can 
scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will 
happen when Paul (younger son) arrives to-morrow. 
From hall you go right or left into dining-room or draw- 
ing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open 
another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a 
sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a 
row there, and three attics in a row above. That is n’t 
all the house ready, but it ’s all that one notices — nine 
windows as you look up from the front garden. 

“Then there ’b a very big wych-elm — to the left as 
you look up — leaning a little over the house, and stand- 

i 


2 


Howards End 


ing on the boundary between the garden and meadow. 

I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, 
oaks — no nastier than ordinary oaks — pear-trees, apple- 
trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, 
I must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to 
show that it is n’t the least what we expected. Why did 
we settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles, 
and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I be- 
lieve simply because we associate them with expensive 
hotels — Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down 
long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We 
females are that unjust. 

“I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train 
later. They are as angry as I am that you did not come 
too ; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal 
disease every month. How could he have got hay fever 
in London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you 
should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell 
him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay 
fever too, but he ’s brave, and gets quite cross when we 
inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby 
a power of good. But you won’t agree, and I ’d better 
change the subject/ 

“This long letter is because I ’m writing before break- 
fast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is 
covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. 
Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves 
it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was 
watching the large red poppies come out. Then she 
walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the 
right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress 
over the sopping grass, and she cams back with her 
hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday — I suppose 


Helen’s Letters 


3 


for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it. 
The air here is delicious. Later onj heard the noise of 
croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles 
Wilcox practising ; they are keen on all games. Presently 
he started sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more 
clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then, 
4 a- tissue, a- tissue ’ : he has to stop too. Then Evie comes 
out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine 
that is tacked on to a green-gage-tree — they put every- 
thing to use — and then she says ‘a- tissue/ and in she 
goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, 
still smelling hay 1 and looking at the flowers. I inflict all 
this on you because once you said that life is sometimes 
life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn 
to distinguish tother from which, and up to now I have 
always put that down as ‘ Meg’s clever nonsense.’ But 
this morning, it really does seem not life but a play, 
and it did amuse me enormously to watch the W’s. 
Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in. 

“I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. 
Wilcox wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it 
is n’t exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut 
your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected. 
Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. 
There is a great hedge of them over the lawn — mag- 
nificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and 
nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks 
through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which 
is the only house near us. There goes the breakfast 
gong. Much Ioa e. Modified love to Tibby. Love to 
Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you com- 
pany, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again 
Thursday. “Helen.” 


4 


Howards End 


“ Howards End, 

“ Friday . 

‘‘Dearest Meg, 

“ I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. 
Wilcox, if quieter than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, 
and I never saw anything like her steady unselfishness, 
and the best of it is that the others do not take advantage 
of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that 
you can imagine. I do really feel that we are making 
friends. The fun of it is that they think me a noodle, and 
say so — at least, Mr. Wilcox does — and when that hap- 
pens, and one does n’t mind, it ’s a pretty sure test, is n’t 
it? He says the most horrid things about woman’s 
suffrage so nicely, and when I said I believed in equality 
he just folded his arms and gave me such a setting down 
as I ’ve never had. Meg, shall we ever learn to talk 
less? I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I 
could n’t point to a time when men had been equal, nor 
even to a time when the wish to be equal had made them 
happier in other ways. I could n’t say a word. I had 
just picked up the notion that equality is good from some 
book — probably from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it ’s 
been knocked into pieces, and, like all people who are 
really strong, Mr. Wilcox did it without hurting me. 
On the other hand, I laugh at them for catching hay 
fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us 
out every day in the motor — a tomb with trees in it, a 
hermit’s house, a wonderful road that was made by the 
Kings of Mercia — tennis — a cricket match — bridge — 
and at night we squeeze up in this lovely house. The 
whole clan’s here now — it’s like a rabbit warren. 
Evie is a dear. They want me to stop over Sunday 
— I suppose it won’t matter if I do. Marvellous 


Helen's Letters 


5 


weather and the views marvellous — views westward 
to the high ground. Thank you for your letter. Burn 
this. 

“ Your affectionate 

“Helen.” 


“ Howards End, 

“ Sunday . 

“ Dearest, dearest Meg, — I do not know what you will 
say : Paul and I are in love — the younger son who only 
came here Wednesday.” 


CHAPTER II 


Aunt Juley Interferes 


Margaret glanced at her sister’s note and pushed it 
over the breakfast- table to her aunt. There was a 
moment’s hush, and then the flood-gates opened. 

“I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no 
more than you do. We met — we only met the father 
and mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I 
did n’t even know their son’s name. It ’s all so — ” 
She waved her hand and laughed a little. 

“In that case it is far too sudden.” 

“Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?” 

“But, Margaret, dear, I mean, we mustn’t be un- 
practical now that we ’ve come to facts. It is too 
sudden, surely.” 

“Who knows!” 

“But, Margaret, dear ” 

“I ’ll go for her other letters,” said Margaret. “No, 
I won’t, I ’ll finish my breakfast. In fact, I have n’t 
them. We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition 
that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I 
had got it into our heads that there was a grand old 
cathedral at Speyer — the Archbishop of $peyer was one 
of the seven electors — you know — ‘ Speyer, Maintz, and 


Aunt Juley Interferes 7 

Koln.* Those three sees once commanded the Rhine 
Valley and got it the name of Priest Street.” 

“I still feel quite uneasy about this business, 
Margaret.” 

“The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first 
sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we 
had seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been 
ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch 
left of the original structure. We wasted a whole day, 
and came across the Wilcoxes as we were eating our 
sandwiches in the public gardens. They too, poor 
things, had been taken in — they were actually stopping 
at Speyer — and they rather liked Helen’s insisting that 
they must fly with us to Heidelberg. As a matter of 
fact, they did come on next day. We all took some 
drives together. They knew us well enough to ask 
Helen to come and see them — at least, I was asked too, 
but Tibby’s illness prevented me, so last Monday she 
went alone. That ’s all. You know as much as I do 
now. It ’s a young man out of the unknown. She was 
to have come back Saturday, but put off till Monday, 
perhaps on account of — I don’t know.” 

She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London 
morning. Their house was in Wickham Place, and 
fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings sepa- 
rated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the 
sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose 
waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into 
a profound silence while the waves without were still 
beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats — 
expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of con- 
cierges and palms — it fulfilled its purpose, and gained 
for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace. 


8 


Howards End 


These, too, would be swept away in time, and another 
promontory would arise upon their site, as humanity 
piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of 
London. 

Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her 
nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hys- 
terical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. 
Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, 
and declared that never, never should she be so mis- 
guided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that 
the principles of restoration were ill understood in Ger- 
many. “The Germans,” she said, “are too thorough, 
and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times 
it does not do.” 

“Exactly,” said Margaret; “Germans are too thor- 
ough.” And her eyes began to shine. 

“Of course I regard you Schlegels as English,” said 
Mrs. Munt hastily — “English to the backbone.” 

Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. 

“And that reminds me — Helen’s letter ” 

“Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about 
Helen’s letter. I know — I must go down and see her. 
I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go 
down.” 

“But go with some plan,” said Mrs. Munt, admitting 
into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. “ Margaret, 
if I may interfere, don’t be taken by surprise. What do 
you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are 
they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who 
is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they 
care about Literature and Art? That is most important 
when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. 
Most important. How old would the son be? She 


Aunt Juley Interferes 9 

says ‘ younger son . ’ Would he be in a position to marry ? 
Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather ’ ’ 

“I gathered nothing.’' 

They began to talk at once. 

“Then in that case ” 

“In that case I can make no plans, don’t you see.” 

“On the contrary ” 

“I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn’t 
a baby.” 

“Then in that case, my dear, why go down?” 

Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why 
she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She 
was not going to say, “I love my dear sister; I must be 
near her at this crisis of her life.” The affections are 
more reticent than the passions, and their expression 
more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love 
with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the 
housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the 
voiceless language of sympathy. 

“I consider you odd girls,” continued Mrs. Munt, 
“and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older 
than your years. But — you won’t be offended? — 
frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It re- 
quires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me 
back to Swanage.” She spread out her plump arms. 
“I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this 
house whose name I forget instead of you.” 

“Aunt Juley” — she jumped up and kissed her — “I 
must, must go to Howards End myself. You don’t 
exactly understand, though I can never thank you 
properly for offering.” 

“I do understand,” retorted Mrs. Munt, with im- 
mense confidence. “I go down in no spirit of interfqr- 


IO 


Howards End 


ence, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. 
Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong 
thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for 
Helen’s happiness you would offend the whole of these 
Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions — 
not that one minds offending them.” 

“I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen’s 
writing that she and a man are in love. There is no 
question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the 
rest is n’t worth a straw. A long engagement if you 
like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action — no, 
Aunt Juley, no.” 

Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely bril- 
liant, but filled with something that took the place of 
both qualities — something best described as a pro- 
found vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all 
that she encountered in her path through life. 

“If Helen had written the same to me about a shop- 
assistant or a penniless clerk ” 

“Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut 
the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters.” 

“ — or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls 
for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same.” 
Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt 
that she was not mad really, and convinced observers 
of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she 
added: “Though in the case of Carter Paterson I 
should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I 
must say.” 

“I should think so,” said Mrs. Munt; “and, indeed, I 
can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said 
anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, 
but most good people would think you mad. Imagine 


II 


Aunt Juley Interferes 

how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a 
person who will go slowly y slowly in this business, and 
see how things are and where they are likely to lead to.” 

Margaret was down on this. 

“But you implied just now that the engagement must 
be broken off.” 

“I think probably it must; but slowly.” 

“Can you break an engagement off slowly?” Her 
eyes lit up. “What ’s an engagement made of, do you 
suppose? I think it ’s made of some hard stuff that 
may snap, but can’t break. It is different to the other 
ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of 
degree. They ’re different.” 

“Exactly so. But won’t you let me just run down to 
Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will 
really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand 
the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look 
round will be enough for me.” 

Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and 
then ran upstairs to see her brother. 

He was not so well. 

The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. 
His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous mem- 
brane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condi- 
tion. The only thing that made life worth living was 
the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose 
Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at 
frequent intervals during the day. 

It was rather difficult. Something must be done 
about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a 
criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to 
this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit 
seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor 


12 


Howards End 


arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it 
really be best to accept Aunt Juley’s kind offer, and to 
send her down to Howards End with a note? 

Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing 
rapidly from one decision to another. Running down- 
stairs into the library, she cried: “Yes, I have changed 
my mind; I do wish that you would go.” 

There was a train from King’s Cross at eleven. At half- 
past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and 
Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station. 

“You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into 
discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen, 
and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear 
of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names 
straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so 
uncivilised and wrong.” 

“So uncivilised?” queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that 
she was losing the point of some brilliant remark. 

“Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would 
you please talk the thing over only with Helen.” 

“Only with Helen.” 

“Because — ” But it was no moment to expound 
the personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank 
from it, and contented herself with stroking her good 
aunt’s hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and 
half poetically, on the journey that was about to begin 
from King’s Cross. 

Like many others who have lived long in a great 
capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway 
termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the un- 
known. Through them we pass out into adventure 
and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington 
all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the 


13 


Aunt Juley Interferes 

inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimit- 
able Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; 
Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians 
realise this, as is natural ; those of them who are so un- 
fortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt 
Bahnhof the Stazione d’ltalia, because by it they must 
return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner 
who does not endow his stations with some personality, 
and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear 
and love. 

To Margaret — I hope that it will not set the reader 
against her — the station of King’s Cross had always 
suggested Infinity. Its very situation — withdrawn a 
little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras — im- 
plied a comment on the materialism of life. Those two 
great arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between 
them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal 
adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would 
certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of 
prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that 
it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me 
hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the 
train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class 
ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two 
4 ‘seconds” on the train, one smoking and the other babies 
— one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and 
that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was 
confronted with the following telegram: 

“All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one.— ‘ 
Helen.” 

But Aunt Juley was gone — gone irrevocably, and no 
power on earth could stop her. 


CHAPTER III 


At Cross Purposes 

Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. 
Her nieces were independent young women, and it was 
not often that she was able to help them. Emily’s 
daughters had never been quite like other girls. They 
had been left motherless when Tibby was born, when 
Helen was five and Margaret herself but thirteen. It 
was before the passing of the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill, 
so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to go and 
keep house at Wickham Place. But her brother-in-law, 
who was peculiar and a German, had referred the ques- 
tion to Margaret, who with the crudity of youth had 
answered, “No, they could manage much better alone.” 
Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. 
Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no 
longer, had been grateful and extremely nice, but the 
substance of her answer had been the same. “I must 
not interfere a third time,” thought Mrs. Munt. How- 
ever, of course she did. She learnt, to her horror, that 
Margaret, now of age, was taking her money out of the 
old safe investments and putting it into Foreign Things, 
which always smash. Silence would have been criminal. 
Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails, and most 

14 


15 


At Cross Purposes 

ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. “Then 
we should be together, dear.” Margaret, out of polite- 
ness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham and 
Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did 
admirably and the Nottingham and Derby declined 
with the steady dignity of which only Home Rails are 
capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to rejoice, and to 
say, “I did manage that, at all events. When the smash 
comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back 
upon.” This year Helen came of age, and exactly the 
same thing happened in Helen’s case ; she also would shift 
her money out of Consols, but she, too, almost without 
being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to the Notting- 
ham and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in social 
matters their aunt had accomplished nothing. Sooner 
or later the girls would enter on the process known as 
throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed 
hitherto, it was only that they might throw themselves 
more vehemently in the future. They saw too many 
people at Wickham Place — unshaven musicians, an 
actress even, German cousins (one knows what foreigners 
are) , acquaintances picked up at Continental hotels (one 
knows what they are too) . It was interesting, and down 
at Swanage no one appreciated culture more than Mrs. 
Munt; but it was dangerous, and disaster was bound 
to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on 
the spot when the disaster came! 

The train sped northward, under innumerable tun- 
nels. It was only an hour’s journey, but Mrs. Munt 
had to raise and lower the window again and again. 
She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw 
light for a moment, and entered the North Welwyn 
Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the immense 


i6 


Howards End 


viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and 
the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks 
of politicians. At times the Great North Road ac- 
companied her, more suggestive of infinity than any 
railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred years, to 
such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, 
and to such culture as is implied by the advertisements 
of antibilious pills. To history, to tragedy, to the past, 
to the future, Mrs. Munt remained equally indifferent; 
hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey, and 
to rescue poor Helen from this dreadful mess. 

The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of 
the large villages that are strung so frequently along the 
North Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of 
coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London, 
it had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High 
Street had budded out right and left into residential 
estates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated 
houses passed before Mrs. Munt’s inattentive eyes, a 
series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that 
stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of 
soldiers. Beyond these tumuli, habitations thickened, 
and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that was 
almost a town. 

The station, like the scenery, like Helen’s letters, 
struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will 
it lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island 
platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort 
exacted by business men. But it held hints of local 
life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to 
discover. 

“I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “ Its 
name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?” 


At Cross Purposes 17 

“Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called. 

A young man in front of them turned round. 

“She ’s wanting Howards End.” 

There was nothing for it but to go forward, though 
Mrs. Munt was too much agitated even to stare at 
the stranger. But remembering that there were two 
brothers, she had the sense to say to him, “Excuse me 
asking, but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the 
elder?” 

“The younger. Can I do anything for you?” 

“Oh, well” — she controlled herself with difficulty. 
“Really. Are you? I — ” She moved) away from 
the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am Miss 
Schlegel’s aunt. I ought to introduce myself, ought n’t 
I ? My name is Mrs. Munt.” 

She was conscious that he raised his cap and said 
quite coolly, “Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping 
with us. Did you want to see her?” 

“Possibly ” 

“ I ’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo — ” He thought. 
“Our motor ’s here. I ’ll run you up in it.” 

“That is very kind ” 

“Not at all, if you ’ll just wait till they bring out a 
parcel from the office. This way.” 

“My niece is not with you by any chance?” 

“No; I came over with my father. He has gone on 
north in your train. You ’ll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. 
You ’re coming up to lunch, I hope?” 

“I should like to come up,” said Mrs. Munt, not com- 
mitting herself to nourishment until she had studied 
Helen’s lover a little more. He seemed a gentleman, 
but had so rattled her round that her powers of obser- 
vation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily. 


i8 


Howards End 


To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp 
depressions at the corners of his mouth, or in the rather 
box-like construction of his forehead. He was dark, 
clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command. 

“ In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may 
be windy in front.” 

“In front if I may; then we can talk.” 

“But excuse me one moment — I can’t think what 
they ’re doing with that parcel.” He strode into the 
booking-office, and called with a new voice: “Hi! hi, 
you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? 
Parcel for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!” 
Emerging, he said in quieter tones: “This station ’s 
abominably organised; if I had my way, the whole lot 
of ’em should get the sack. May I help you in?” 

“This is very good of you,” said Mrs. Munt, as she 
settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, and 
suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls. 
She was more civil than she had intended, but really 
this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a 
little afraid of him; his self-possession was extraordinary. 
“Very good indeed,” she repeated, adding: “It is just 
what I should have wished.” 

“Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight 
look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped 
Mrs. Munt’s attention. “I was just tooling my father 
over to catch the down train.” 

“You see, we heard from Helen this morning.” 

Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his 
engine, and performing other actions with which this 
story has no concern. The great car began to rock, and 
the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang 
agreeably up and down among the red cushions. “The 


19 


At Cross Purposes 

mater will be very glad to see you,” he mumbled. “ Hi! 
I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards End. Bring it 
out. Hi!” 

A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand 
and an entry book in the other. With the gathering 
• whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: “Sign, 
must I? Why the — should I sign after all this bother? 
Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time 
I report you to the station-master. My time ’s of value, 
though yours may n’t be. Here” — here being a tip. 

“Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.” 

“Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.” 

“And do you object to going through the village? 
It is rather a longer spin, but I have one or two 
commissions.” 

“I should love going through the village. Naturally 
I am very anxious to talk things over with you.” 

As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was dis- 
obeying Margaret’s instructions. Only disobeying them 
in the letter, surely. Margaret had only warned her 
against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely 
it was not “uncivilised or wrong” to discuss it with the 
young man himself, since chance had thrown them 
together. 

A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by 
her side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they 
drove, the bearded porter — life is a mysterious business 
— looking after them with admiration. 

The wind was in their faces down the station road, 
blowing the dust into Mrs. Munt’s eyes. But as soon 
as they turned into the Great North Road she opened 
fire. “You can well imagine,” she said, “that the news 
was a great shock to us.” 


20 


Howards End 


“What news?” 

“Mr. Wilcox,” she said frankly, “Margaret has told 
me everything — everything. I have seen Helen’s 
letter.” 

He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed 
on his work; he was travelling as quickly as he dared 
down the High Street. But he inclined his head in her 
direction, and said: “I beg your pardon; I didn’t catch.” 

“About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very 
exceptional person — I am sure you will let me say this, 
feeling towards her as you do — indeed, all the Schlegels 
are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but 
it was a great shock.” 

They drew up opposite a draper’s. Without replying, 
he turned round in his seat, and contemplated the cloud 
of dust that they had raised in their passage through 
the village. It was settling again, but not all into the 
road from which he had taken it. Some of it had per- 
colated through the open windows, some had whitened 
the roses and gooseberries of the wayside gardens, while 
a certain proportion had entered the lungs of the vil- 
lagers. “I wonder when they ’ll learn wisdom and tar 
the roads,” was his comment. Then a man ran out 
of the draper’s with a roll of oilcloth, and off they 
went again. 

“ Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor 
Tibby, so I am here to represent her and to have a good 
talk.” 

“I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man, 
again drawing up outside a shop. “But I still have n’t 
quite understood.” 

“Helen, Mr. Wilcox — my niece and you.” 

He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely 


21 


At Cross Purposes 

bewildered. Horror smote her to the heart, for even 
she began to suspect that they were at cross-purposes, 
and that she had commenced her mission by some 
hideous blunder. 

“Miss Schlegel and myself ?” he asked, compressing 
his lips. 

“I trust there has been no misunderstanding,’’ 
quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her letter certainly read that 
way.” 

“What way?” 

“That you and she — ” She paused, then drooped her 
eyelids. 

“I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily. 
“What an extraordinary mistake!” 

“Then you didn’t the least — ” she stammered, 
getting blood-red in the face, and wishing she had 
never been born. 

“Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady.” 
There was a moment’s silence, and then he caught his 
breath and exploded with, “Oh, good God! Don’t tell 
me it ’s some silliness of Paul’s.” 

“But you are Paul.” 

“I ’m not.” 

“Then why did you say so at the station?” 

“I said nothing of the sort.” 

“I beg your pardon, you did.” 

“I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles.” 

“Younger” may mean son as opposed to father, or 
second brother as opposed to first. There is much to 
be said for either view, and later on they said it. But 
they had other questions before them now. 

“Do you mean to tell me that Paul ” 

But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he 


22 


Howards End 


was talking to a porter, and, certain that he had de- 
ceived her at the station, she too grew angry. 

“Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your 
niece ” 

Mrs. Munt — such is human nature — determined that 
she would champion the lovers. She was not going to 
be bullied by a severe young man. “Yes, they care for 
one another very much indeed,” she said. “I dare say 
they will tell you about it by-and-by. We heard this 
morning.” 

And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot, 
the idiot, the little fool!” 

Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If 
that is your attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk.” 

“I beg you will do no such thing. I take you up this 
moment to the house. Let me tell you the thing ’s im- 
possible, and must be stopped.” 

Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when 
she did it was only to protect those whom she loved. 
On this occasion she blazed out. “I quite agree, sir. 
The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop 
it. My niece is a very exceptional person, and I am 
not inclined to sit still while she throws herself away on 
those who will not appreciate her.” 

Charles worked his jaws. 

“Considering she has only known your brother since 
Wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a 
stray hotel ” 

“ Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman 
will overhear.” 

Esprit de classe — if one may coin the phrase — was 
strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a mem- 
ber of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a 


23 


At Cross Purposes 

saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth. 

“Right behind?” 

“Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud 
of dust. 

“I warn you: Paul has n’t a penny; it ’s useless.” 

“No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The 
warning is all the other way. My niece has been very 
foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and take 
her back to London with me.” 

“He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He could n’t 
think of marrying for years, and when he does it must be 
a woman who can stand the climate, and is in other 
ways — Why has n’t he told us? Of course he ’s 
ashamed. He knows he ’s been a fool. And so he has 
— a downright fool.” 

She grew furious. 

“Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing 
the news.” 

“If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark 
I ’d box your ears. You ’re not fit to clean my niece’s 
boots, to sit in the same room with her, and you dare — 
you actually dare — I decline to argue with such a 
person.” 

“All I know is, she ’s spread the thing and he has n’t, 
and my father ’s away and I ” 

“And all that I know is ” 

“Might I finish my sentence, please?” 

“No.” 

Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerv- 
ing all over the lane. 

She screamed. 

So they played the game of Capping Families, a 
round of which is always played when love would unite 


24 


Howards End 


two members of our race. But they played it with 
unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schle- 
gels were better than Wilcoxes, Wilcoxes better than 
Schlegels. They flung decency aside. The man was 
young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of 
coarseness was latent. Their quarrel was no more sur- 
prising than are most quarrels — inevitable at the time, 
incredible afterwards. But it was more than usually 
futile. A few minutes, and they were enlightened. 
The motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking 
very pale, ran out to meet her aunt. 

“Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Mar- 
garet; I — I meant to stop your coming. It is n’t — it ’s 
over.” 

The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst 
into tears. 

“Aunt Juley dear, don’t. Don’t let them know I ’ve 
been so silly. It was n’t anything. Do bear up for my 
.sake.” 

“Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off. 

“Don’t let them know. They are never to know.” 

“Oh, my darling Helen ” 

“Paul! Paul!” 

A very young man came out of the house. 

“Paul, is there any truth in this?” 

“I did n’t— I don’t ” 

“Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did 
or did n’t Miss Schlegel ” 

“Charles dear,” said a voice from the garden. 
“Charles, dear Charles, one does n’t ask plain questions. 
There are n’t such things.” 

They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox. 

She approached just as Helen’s letter had described 


25 


At Cross Purposes 

her, trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was 
actually a wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to be- 
long not to the young people and their motor, but to the 
house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew 
that she worshipped the past, and that the instinctive 
wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon 
her — that wisdom to which we give the clumsy name of 
aristocracy. High bom she might not be. But as- 
suredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them help 
her. When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened, and 
Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say, “Sepa- 
rate those human beings who will hurt each other most. 
The rest can wait.” So she did not ask questions. 
Still less did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a 
competent society hostess would have done. She said : 
“Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your 
room or to my room, whichever you think best. Paul, 
do find Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but I ’m not 
sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it.” And 
when they had obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, 
who still stood in the throbbing, stinking car, and smiled 
at him with tenderness, and without saying a word, 
turned away from him towards her flowers. 

“Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has 
been playing the fool again?” 

“It is all right, dear. They have broken off the 
engagement.” 

‘ ‘ Engagement ! ” 

“They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put 
that way,” said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a 
rose. 


CHAPTER IV 


The Wilcox Episode 

Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Place in a 
state of collapse, and for a little time Margaret had three 
invalids on her hands. Mrs. Munt soon recovered. 
She possessed to a remarkable degree the power of dis- 
torting the past, and before many days were over she 
had forgotten the part played by her own imprudence 
in the catastrophe. Even at the crisis she had cried, 
“Thank goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!” which 
during the journey to London evolved into, “It had to 
be gone through by some one,” which in its turn ripened 
into the permanent form of “The one time I really did 
help Emily’s girls was over the Wilcox business.” But 
Helen was a more serious patient. New ideas had burst 
upon her like a thunderclap, and by them and by their 
reverberations she had been stunned. 

The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with 
an individual, but with a family. 

Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned 
up into his key. The energy of the Wilcoxes had fas- 
cinated her, had created new images of beauty in her 
responsive mind. To be all day with them in the open 
air, to sleep at night under their roof, had seemed the 


27 


The Wilcox Episode 

supreme joy of life, and had led to that abandonment 
of personality that is a possible prelude to love. She 
had liked giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles; 
she had liked being told that her notions of life were 
sheltered or academic; that Equality was nonsense, 
Votes for Women nonsense, Socialism nonsense, Art 
and Literature, except when conducive to strengthening 
the character, nonsense. One by one the Schlegel 
fetiches had been overthrown, and, though professing 
to defend them, she had rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox 
said that one sound man of business did more good to the 
world than a dozen of your social reformers, she had 
swallowed the curious assertion without a gasp, and had 
leant back luxuriously among the cushions of his motor-^ 
car. When Charles said, “Why be so polite to servants? / 
they don’t understand it,” she had not given the 
Schlegel retort of, “If they don’t understand it, I do.” 
No; she had vowed to be less polite to servants in the 
future. “I am swathed in cant,” she thought, “and 
it is good for me to be stripped of it.” And all that she 
thought or did or breathed was a quiet preparation for 
Paul. Paul was inevitable. Charles was taken up 
with another girl, Mr. Wilcox was so old, Evie so young, 
Mrs. Wilcox so different. Round the absent brother 
she began to throw the halo of Romance, to irradiate 
i him with all the splendour of those happy days, to feel 
that in him she should draw nearest to the robust ideal. 

He and she were about the same age, Evie said. Most 
people thought Paul handsomer than his brother. He 
was certainly a better shot, though not so good at golf. 
And when Paul appeared, flushed with the triumph of 
getting through an examination, and ready to flirt 
with any pretty girl, Helen met him halfway, or more 


28 Howards End 

than halfway, and turned towards him on the Sunday 
evening. 

He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria, 
and he should have continued to talk of it, and allowed 
their guest to recover. But the heave of her bosom 
flattered him. Passion was possible, and he became 
passionate. Deep down in him something whispered, 
“This girl would let you kiss her; you might not have 
such a chance again.” 

That was “how it happened,” or, rather, how Helen 
described it to her sister, using words even more un- 
sympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss, 
the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for 
hours after it — who can describe that? It is so easy 
for an Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions 
of human beings. To the insular cynic and the insular 
moralist they offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy 
to talk of “passing emotion,” and to forget how vivid 
the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, 
to forget, is at root a good one. We recognise that 
emotion is not enough, and that men and women are 
personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere 
opportunities for an electrical discharge. Y et we rate the 
impulse too highly. We do not admit that by collisions 
of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken 
open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to bring 
nothing more intense than the embrace of this boy who 
played no part in it. He had drawn her out of the house, 
where there was danger of surprise and light; he had 
led her by a path he knew, until they stood under the 
column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the darkness, 
he had whispered “I love you” when she was desiring 
love. In time his slender personality faded, the scene 


2 9 


The Wilcox Episode 

that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years 
that followed she never saw the like of it again. 

“I understand,” said Margaret — “at least, I under- 
stand as much as ever is understood of these things. 
Tell me now what happened on the Monday morning.” 

“It was over at once.” 

“How, Helen?” 

“I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came 
downstairs I got nervous, and when I went into the 
dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie — 
— I can’t explain — managing the tea-urn, and Mr. 
Wilcox reading the Times. ” 

“Was Paul there?” 

“Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks 
and shares, and he looked frightened.” 

By slight indications the sisters could convey much to 
each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, 
and Helen’s next remark did not surprise her. 

“Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened 
it is too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or 
for men of another sort — father, for instance; but for 
men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, 
and Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, 
I felt for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a 
fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and 
golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing be- 
hind it but panic and emptiness.” 

“I don’t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as be- 
ing genuine people, particularly the wife.” 

“No, I don’t really think that. But Paul was so 
broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things 
made it worse, and I knew that it would never do — 
never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others 


30 


Howards End 


were practising strokes, ‘We rather lost our heads/ and 
he looked better at once, though frightfully ashamed. 
He began a speech about having no money to marry on, 
but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then 
he said, ‘ I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schle- 
gel; I can’t think what came over me last night.* 
And I said, ‘Nor what over me; never mind.’ And 
then we parted — at least, until I remembered that I had 
written straight off to tell you the night before, and 
that frightened him again. I asked him to send a 
telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or 
something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but 
Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; 
and Charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then 
I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, 
for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I 
wrote it out several times, he always said people would 
suspect something. He took it himself at last, pre- 
tending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, 
what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in 
at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible 
morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie 
talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I can- 
not think how I stood her all the other days. At last 
Charles and his father started for the station, and then 
came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was 
coming by that train, and Paul — oh, rather horrible — 
said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew.’* 

“Knew what?” 

“Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, 
and she had known all along, I think.” 

“Oh, she must have overheard you.” 

“I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When 


31 


The Wilcox Episode 

Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other 
names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and 
made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a 
disgusting business. To think that — ” She sighed. 

“To think that because you and a young man meet 
for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and 
anger,” supplied Margaret. 

Helen nodded. 

“I ’ve often thought about it, Helen. It ’s one of the 
most interesting things in the world. The truth is that 
there is a great outer life that you and I have never 
touched — a life in which telegrams and anger count. 
Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not su- 
preme there. There love means marriage settlements, 
death, death duties. So far I ’m clear. But here my 
difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid, 
often seems the real one — there ’s grit in it. It does 
breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppi- 
ness in the end?” 

“Oh, Meg, that ’s what I felt, only not so clearly, 
when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to 
have their hands on all the ropes.” 

“Don’t you feel it now?” 

“I remember Paul at breakfast,” said Helen quietly. 
“I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back 
upon. I know that personal relations are the real 
life, for ever and ever.” 

“Amen!” 

So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leav- 
ing behind it memories of sweetness and horror that 
mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had 
commended. They talked to each other and to other 
people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place 


32 


Howards End 


with those whom they liked or could befriend. They 
even attended public meetings. In their own fashion 
they cared deeply about politics, though not as poli- 
ticians would have us care; they desired that public life 
should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Tem- 
perance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible 
cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward 
Policy in Thibet with the keen attention that it merits, 
and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire 
with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are 
the shows of history erected: the world would be a 
grey, bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss 
Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps 
they shine out in it like stars. 

A word on their origin. They were not “English to 
the back-bone,” as their aunt had piously asserted. But, 
on the other hand, they were not “Germans of the 
dreadful sort.” Their father had belonged to a type that 
was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than 
now. He was not the aggressive German, so dear to the 
English journalist, nor the domestic German, so dear 
to the English wit. If one classed him at all it would be 
as the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, 
inclined to be dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Im- 
perialism of the air. Not that his life had been inactive. 
He had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria, 
France. But he had fought without visualising the re- 
sults of victory. A hint of the truth broke on him after 
Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of Napoleon 
going grey; another when he entered Paris, and saw 
the smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came — 
it was all very immense, one had turned into an Empire 
— but he knew that some quality had vanished for which 


33 


The Wilcox Episode 

not all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Ger- 
many a commercial Power, Germany a naval Power, 
Germany with colonies here and a Forward Policy 
there, and legitimate aspirations in the other place, 
might appeal to others, and be fitly served by them ; for 
his own part, he abstained from the fruits of victory, 
and naturalised himself in England. The more earnest 
members of his family never forgave him, and knew 
that his children, though scarcely English of the dread- 
ful sort, would never be German to the back-bone. He 
had obtained work in one of our provincial universities, 
and there married Poor Emily (or Die Engldnderin , 
as the case may be), and as she Jiad money, they pro- 
ceeded to London, and came to know a good many peo- 
ple. But his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It 
was his hope that the clouds of materialism obscuring 
the Fatherland would part in time, and the mild in- 
tellectual light re-emerge. “Do you imply that we 
Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?” exclaimed a 
haughty and magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied, 
“To my mind. You use the intellect, but you no longer 
care about it. That I call stupidity.” As the haughty 
nephew did not follow, he continued, “You only care 
about the things that you can use, and therefore arrange 
them in the following order: Money, supremely useful; 
intellect, rather useful; imagination, of no use at all. 
No” — for the other had protested — “your Pan-Ger- 
manism is no more imaginative than is our Imperialism 
over here. It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled 
by bigness, to think that a thousand square miles are a 
thousand times more wonderful than one square mile, 
and that a million square miles are almost the same as 
heaven. That is not imagination. No, it kills it. 


3 


34 


Howards End 


When their poets over here try to celebrate bigness they 
are dead at once, and naturally. Your poets too are 
dying, your philosophers, your musicians, to whom 
Europe has listened for two hundred years. Gone. 
Gone with the little courts that nurtured them — gone 
with Esterhazy and Weimar. What? What ’s that? 
Your universities? Oh yes, you have learned men, who 
collect more facts than do the learned men of England. 
They collect facts, and facts, and empires of facts. But 
which of them will rekindle the light within?” 

To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty 
nephew’s knee. 

It was a unique education for the little girls. The 
haughty nephew would be at Wickham Place one day, 
bringing with him an even haughtier wife, both con- 
vinced that Germany was appointed by God to govern 
the world. Aunt Juley would come the next day, con- 
vinced that Great Britain had been appointed to the 
same post by the same authority. Were both these 
loud-voiced parties right? On one occasion they had 
met, and Margaret with clasped hands had implored 
them to argue the subject out in her presence. Whereat 
they blushed, and began to talk about the weather. 
“Papa,” she cried — she was a most offensive child — 
“why will they not discuss this most clear question?” 
Her father, surveying the parties grimly, replied that he 
did not know. Putting her head on one side, Margaret 
then remarked, “To me one of two things is very clear; 
either God does not know his own mind about England 
and Germany, or else these do not know the mind of 
God.” A hateful little girl, but at thirteen she had 
grasped a dilemma that most people travel through life 
without perceiving. Her brain darted up and down; it 


35 


The Wilcox Episode 

grew pliant and strong. Her conclusion was, that any 
human being lies nearer to the unseen than any organi- 
sation, and from this she never varied. 

Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a 
more irresponsible tread. In character she resembled 
her sister, but she was pretty, and so apt to have a more 
amusing time. People gathered round her more readily, 
especially when they were new acquaintances, and she 
did enjoy a little homage very much. When their 
father died and they ruled alone at Wickham Place, she 
often absorbed the whole of the company, while Margaret 
— both were tremendous talkers — fell flat. Neither 
sister bothered about this. Helen never apologised 
afterwards, Margaret did not feel the slightest rancour. 
But looks have their influence upon character. The 
sisters were alike as little girls, but at the time of the 
Wilcox episode their methods were beginning to diverge; 
the younger was rather apt to entice people, and, in 
enticing them, to be herself enticed; the elder went 
straight ahead, and accepted an occasional failure as 
part of the game. 

Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now 
an intelligent man of sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile. 


/ 


CHAPTER V 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 

It will be generally admitted that Beethoven’s Fifth 
Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever 
penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and condi- 
tions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. 
Munt, and tap surreptitiously when the tunes come — 
of course, not so as to disturb the others — or like Helen, 
who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music’s flood ; 
or like Margaret, who can only see the music; or like 
Tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and 
holds the full score open on his knee; or like their cousin, 
Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers all the time that 
Beethoven is edit Deutsch; or like Fraulein Mosebach’s 
young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein 
Mosebach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes 
more vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a 
noise is cheap at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you 
hear it in the Queen’s Hall, dreariest music-room in 
London, though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall, 
Manchester; and even if you sit on the extreme left 
of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the 
rest of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap. 

“Whom is Margaret talking to?” said Mrs. Munt, at 
the conclusion of the first movement. She was again 
in London on a visit to Wickham Place. 

36 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 37 

Helen looked down the long line of their party, and 
said that she did not know. 

“Would it be some young man or other whom she 
takes an interest in?” 

“I expect so,” Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, 
and she could not enter into the distinction that divides 
young men whom one takes an interest in from young 
men whom one knows. 

“You girls are so wonderful in always having 

Oh dear! one must n’t talk.” 

For the Andante had begun — very beautiful, but bear- 
ing a family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes 
that Beethoven had written, and, to Helen’s mind, 
rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the 
first movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. 
She heard the tune through once, and then her attention 
wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or 
the architecture. Much did she censure the attenuated 
Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen’s Hall, 
inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in 
sallow pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck. 
“ How awful to marry a man like those Cupids ! ” thought 
Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune, 
so she heard him through once more, and then she smiled 
at her Cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical 
Music, could not respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked 
as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there 
were lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his 
pince-nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid 
a thick, white hand on either knee. And next to her was 
Aunt Juley, so British, and wanting to tap. How in- 
teresting that row of people was! What diverse in- 
fluences had gone to the making! Here Beethoven, 


38 


Howards End 


after humming and hawing with great sweetness, said 
“ Heigho,” and the Andante came to an end. Applause, 
and a round of “ wunderschoning ” and pracht volleying 
from the German contingent. Margaret started talk- 
ing to her new young man; Helen said to her aunt: 
“Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the 
goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing” ; and Tibby 
implored the company generally to look out for the 
transitional passage on the drum. 

“On the what, dear?” 

“On the drum, Aunt Juley.” 

“No; look out for the part where you think you have 
done with the goblins and they come back,” breathed 
Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly 
over the universe, from end to end. Others followed 
him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that 
that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely 
observed in passing that there was no such thing as 
splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude 
of elephants dancing, they returned and made the ob- 
servation for the second time. Helen could not con- 
tradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the 
same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. 
Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The 
goblins were right. 

Her brother raised his finger; it was the transitional 
passage on the drum. 

For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took 
hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. 
He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, 
and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a 
minor, and then — he blew with his mouth and they 
were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demi- 


39 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 

gods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance 
broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, 
magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and 
she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was 
tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; 
conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by 
the angels oi the utmost stars. 

And the goblins- — they had not really been there at 
all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and 
unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel 
them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt, 
would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins 
really had been there. They might return — and they 
did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over 
and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one 
heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with in- 
creased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from 
end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and empti- 
ness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might 
fall. 

Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He 
built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the 
second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He 
brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the 
youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid 
vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth 
Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were 
there. They could return. He had said so bravely, 
and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says 
other things. 

Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She 
desired to be alone. The music had summed up to her 
all that had happened or could happen in her career. 


40 


Howards End 


She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be 
superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and 
they could have no other meaning, and life could have no 
other meaning. She pushed right out of the building 
and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing 
the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. 

“Margaret,” called Mrs. Munt, “is Helen all 
right?” 

“Oh yes.” 

“She is always going away in the middle of a pro- 
gramme,” said Tibby. 

“The music has evidently moved her deeply,” said 
Fraulein Mosebach. 

“Excuse me,” said Margaret’s young man, who had 
for some time been preparing a sentence, “but that lady 
has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella.” 

“Oh, good gracious me! — I am so sorry. Tibby, run 
after Helen.” 

“I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do.” 

“Tibby, love, you must go.” 

“It isn’t of any consequence,” said the young man, 
in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. 

“ But of course it is. Tibby ! Tibby ! ’ ’ 

Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person 
on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped 
up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited 
his full score in safety, it was “too late” to go after 
Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one 
could not move during their performance. 

“My sister is so careless,” whispered Margaret. 

“ Not at all,” replied the young man; but his voice was 
dead and cold. 

“If you would give me your address ” 


4i 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 

“Oh, not at all, not at all;” and he wrapped his great- 
coat over his knees. 

Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Mar- 
garet’s ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, 
had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of 
stealing an umbrella, j For this fool of a young man 
thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing 
the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his ad- 
dress they would break into his rooms some midnight 
or other and steal his walking-stick too'!) Most ladies 
would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it 
gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a 
luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor 
cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted him- 
self out, she gave him her card and said, “That is where 
we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella 
after the concert, but I did n’t like to trouble you when 
it has all been our fault.” 

His face brightened a little when he saw that Wick- 
ham Place was W. It was sad to see him corroded with 
suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case 
these well-dressed people were honest after all. She 
took it as a good sign that he said to her, “It ’s a fine 
programme this afternoon, is it not?” for this was the 
remark with which he had originally opened, before the 
umbrella intervened. 

“The Beethoven ’s fine,” said Margaret, who was not 
a female of the encouraging type. “I don’t like the 
Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first — 
and ugh! I don’t like this Elgar that ’s coming.” 

“What, what?” called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. 
“The ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ will not be fine?” 

“Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!” cried her aunt. 


42 


Howards End 


“Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop 
for ‘Pomp and Circumstance,’ and you are undoing all 
my work. I am so anxious for him to hear what we 
are doing in music. Oh, you must n’t run down our 
English composers, Margaret.” 

“For my part, I have heard the composition at Stet- 
tin,” said Fraulein Mosebach, “on two occasions. It 
is dramatic, a little.” 

“Frieda, you despise English music. You know you 
do. And English art. And English literature, except 
Shakespeare, and he ’s a German. Very well, Frieda, 
you may go.” 

The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved 
by a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled 
from “Pomp and Circumstance.” 

“We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is 
true,” said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and 
reached the gangway just a^ the music started. 

“Margaret — ” loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. £ 
“Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her 
beautiful little bag behind her on the seat.” 

Sure enough, there was Frieda’s reticule, containing 
her address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of 
London, and her money. 

“Oh, what a bother — what a family we are! Fr — 
frieda!” 

“Hush!” said all those who thought the music fine. 

“But it’s the number they want in Finsbury Circus 

i > 

“ Might I — could n’t I ” said the suspicious young 

man, and got very red. 

“Oh, I would be so grateful.” 

He took the bag — money clinking inside it — and 


43 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 

slipped up the gangway with it. He was just in time 
to catch them at the swing-door, and he received a pretty 
smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her 
cavalier. He returned to his seat upsides with the world. 
The trust that they had reposed in him was trivial, but 
he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that 
probably he would not be “had” over his umbrella. 
This young man had been “had” in the past badly, 
perhaps everwhelmingly — and now most of his energies 
went in defending himself against the unknown. But 
this afternoon — perhaps on account of music — he per- 
ceived that one must slack off occasionally or what is the 
good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, 
was as safe as most things, and he would risk it. 

So when the concert was over and Margaret said, 
“We live quite near; I am going there now. Could 
i you walk round with me, and we ’ll find your umbrella?” 
he said, “Thank you,” peaceably, and followed her out 
of the Queen’s Hall. She wished that he was not 
so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a 
lady’s programme for her — his class was near enough 
her own for its manners to vex her. But she found 
him interesting on the whole — every one interested 
the Schlegels on the whole at that time — and while her 
lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him 
to tea. 

“How tired one gets after music!” she began. 

“Do you find the atmosphere of Queen’s Hall 
oppressive?” 

“Yes, horribly.” 

“But surely the atmosphere of Co vent Garden is 
even more oppressive.” 

“Do you go there much?” 


44 


Howards End 


“When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the 
Royal Opera.” 

Helen would have exclaimed, “So do I. I love the 
gallery,” and thus have endeared herself to the young 
man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had 
an almost morbid horror of “drawing people out,” of 
“making things go.” She had been to the gallery at 
Co vent Garden, but she did not “attend” it, preferring 
the more expensive seats ; still less did she love it. So she 
made no reply. 

“This year I have been three times — to ‘Faust,* 
‘Tosca,’ and — ” Was it “Tannhouser” or “Tann- 
hoyser”? Better not risk the word. 

Margaret disliked “Tosca” and “Faust.” And so, 
for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, 
chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting 
into difficulties with her nephew. 

“ I do in a way remember the passage, Tibby, but when 
every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out 
one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and 
Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull 
note from beginning to end. I only wish that our Ger- 
man friends had stayed till it finished.” 

“But surely you have n’t forgotten the drum steadily 
beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?” came Tibby’s voice. 
“No one could. It ’s unmistakable.” 

“A specially loud part?” hazarded Mrs. Munt. “Of 
course I do not go in for being musical,” she added, the 
shot failing. “I only care for music — a very different 
thing. But still I will say this for myself — I do know 
when I like a thing and when I don’t. Some people are 
the same about pictures. They can go into a picture 
gallery — Miss Conder can — and say straight off what they 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 45 

feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But 
music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When 
it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, 
Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There 
was a thing — something about a faun in French — which 
Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most 
tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my 
opinion too.” 

“Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think 
music is so different from pictures?” 

“I — I should have thought so, kind of,” he said. 

“So should I. Now, my sister declares they ’re just 
the same. We have great arguments over it. She 
says I ’m dense; I say she ’s sloppy.” Getting under 
way, she cried: “Now, doesn’t it seem absurd to you? 
What is the good of the Arts if they ’re interchangeable? 
What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the 
eye? Helen’s one aim is to translate tunes into the 
language of painting, and pictures into the language of 
music. It ’s very ingenious, and she says several pretty 
; things in the process, but what ’s gained, I ’d like to 
know? Oh, it ’s all rubbish, radically false. If Monet ’s 
really Debussy, and Debussy’s really Monet, neither 
gentleman is worth his salt — that ’s my opinion.” 

Evidently these sisters quarrelled. 

“Now, this very symphony that we’ve just been 
having — she won’t let it alone. She labels it with 
meanings from start to finish ; turns it into literature. I 
wonder if the day will ever return when music will be 
treated as music. Yet I don’t know. There ’s my 
brother — behind us. He treats music as music, and 
oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than any one, 
simply furious.' With him I daren’t even argue.” 


4 6 


Howards End 


An unhappy family, if talented. 

“But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has 
done more than any man in the nineteenth century to- 
wards the muddling of the arts. I do feel that music is in 
a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily 
interesting. Every now and then in history there do 
come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up 
all the wells of thought at once. For a moment it ’s 
splendid. Such a splash as never was. But afterwards 
— such a lot of mud ; and the wells — as it were, they com- 
municate with each other too easily now, and not one of 
them will run quite clear. That ’s what Wagner ’s done.’* 

Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like 
birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have 
caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to 
pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well in- 
formed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady 
started! But it would take one years. With an hour 
at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how 
was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who 
had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain 
might be full of names, he might have even heard of 
Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not 
string them together into a sentence, he could not make 
them “tell,” he could not quite forget about his stolen 
umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. 
Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, 
with the steady beat of a drum. “I suppose my um- 
brella will be all right,” he was thinking. “I don’t 
really mind about it. I will think about music instead. 
I suppose my umbrella will be all right.” Earlier in 
the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to 
have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 47 

wondered, “Shall I try to do without a programme? ” 
There had always been something to worry him ever since 
he could remember, always something that distracted 
him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty, 
and, therefore, Margaret’s speeches did flutter away from 
him like birds. ) 

Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, “Don’t 
you think so? don’t you feel the same?” And once she 
stopped, and said, “Oh, do interrupt me ! ” which terrified 
him. She did not attract him, though she filled him 
with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all 
teeth and eyes, her references to her sister and her 
brother were uncharitable. For all her cleverness and 
I culture, she was probably one of those soulless, atheisti- 
1 cal women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. 
It was surprising (and alarming) that she should sud- 
denly say, “I do hope that you ’ll come in and have 
some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you 
so far out of your way.” 

They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had 
set, and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a 
! gentle haze. To the right the fantastic sky-line of the 
flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the 
left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet 
against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latch-key. 

! Of course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her um- 
brella by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped 
at the dining-room window. 

“Helen! Let us in!” 

“All right,” said a voice. 

“You ’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.” 

“Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. 
“Oh, what ’s that? Do come in! How do you do?” 


4 8 


Howards End 


• “ Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took 

this gentleman’s umbrella away from Queen’s Hall, and 
he has had the trouble of coming round for it.” 

“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying. 
She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and 
had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. “I 
do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! 
Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a 
nobbly? Mine ’s a nobbly — at least, I think it is.” 

The light was turned on, and they began to search the 
hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth 
Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries. 

“ Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s 
silk top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive 
fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I’ve 
knocked the In-and-Out card down. Where ’s Frieda? 
Tibby, why don’t you ever — No, I can’t remember 

^ what I was going to say. That was n’t it, but do tell 
the maids to hurry tea up. What about this um- 
brella?” She opened it. “No, it ’s all gone along the 
seams. It ’s! Ian appalling umbrella. It must be mine.” 

But it was not. 

He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, 
and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk. 

“But if you will stop — ” cried Margaret. “Now, 
Helen, how stupid you ’ve been!” 

“Whatever have I done?” 

“ Don’t you see that you ’ve frightened him away? I 
meant him to stop to tea. You ought n’t to talk about 
stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes 
getting so miserable. No, it ’s not a bit of good now.” 
For Helen had darted out into the street, shouting, 
“Oh, do stop!” 


49 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 

“I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt. 
“We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, 
and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little 
things.” 

But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You 
make me more and more ashamed. I ’d rather he had 
been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than that 
I — Well, I must shut the front-door, I suppose. 
One more failure for Helen.” 

“Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as 
rent,” said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not 
understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent’? It was 
one of father’s words — Rent to the ideal, to his own faith 
in human nature. You remember how he would trust 
strangers, and if they fooled him he would say, ‘ It ’s 
better to be fooled than to be suspicious ’ — that the con- 
fidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-con- j r 
fidence trick is the work of the devilj} 

“I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs. 
Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add, “It was 
lucky that your father married a wife with money.” 

But this was unkind, and she contented herself with, 
“Why, he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture 
as well.” 

“Better that he had,” said Helen stoutly. 

“No, I agree with Aunt Juley,” said Margaret. “I ’d 
rather mistrust people than lose my little Ricketts. 
There are limits.” 

Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had 
stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones for tea. 

He warmed the teapot — almost too deftly — rejected the 
orange pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided, 
poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up 


4 


50 


Howards End 


with really boiling water, and now called to the ladies 
to be quick or they would lose the aroma. 

“All right, Auntie Tibby,” called Heien, while 
Margaret, thoughtful again, said: “In a way, I wish 
we had a real boy in the house — the kind of boy who 
cares for men. It would make entertaining so much 
easier.” 

“So do I,” said her sister. “Tibby only cares for 
cultured females singing Brahms.” And when they 
joined him she said rather sharply: “Why didn’t you 
make that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do 
the host a little, you know. You ought to have taken his 
hat and coaxed him into stopping, instead of letting him 
be swamped by screaming women.” 

Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his 
forehead. 

“Oh, it ’s no good looking superior. I mean what I 
say.” 

“Leave Tibby alone!” said Margaret, who could not 
bear her brother to be scolded. 

“Here’s the house a regular hen-coop!” grumbled 
Helen. 

“Oh, my dear!” protested Mrs. Munt. “How can 
you say such dreadful things! The number of men 
you get here has always astonished me. If there is any 
danger it ’s the other way round.” 

“Yes, but it ’s the wrong sort of men, Helen means.” 

“No, I don’t,” corrected Helen. “We get the right 
sort of man, but the wrong side of him, and I say that ’s 
Tibby’s fault. There ought to be a something about 
the house — an — I don’t know what.” 

“A touch of the W’s, perhaps?” 

Helen put out her tongue. 


5i 


The Concert at Queen’s Hall 

“Who are the W’s?” asked Tibby. 

“The W’s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley 
know about and you don’t, so there!” 

“I suppose that ours is a female house,” said Margaret, 
“and one must just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don’t 
mean that this house is full of women. I am trying to 
say something much more clever. I mean that it was 
irrevocably feminine, even in father’s time. Now I ’m 
sure you understand! Well, I ’ll give you another ex- 
ample. It ’ll shock you, but I don’t care. Suppose 
Queen Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that the guests 
had been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Mere- 
dith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmo- 
sphere of that dinner would have been artistic ? Heavens, 
no! The very chairs on which they sat would have 
seen to that. So with out house — it must be feminine, 
and all we can do is to see that it is n’t effeminate. Just 
as another house that I can mention, but won’t, sounded 
irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do is to 
i see that it is n’t brutal.” 

“That house being the W’s house, I presume,” said 
Tibby. 

“You ’re not going to be told about the W’s, my 
child,” Helen cried, “so don’t you think it. And on the 
j other hand, I don’t the least mind if you find out, so 
don’t you think you ’ve done anything clever, in either 
. case. Give me a cigarette.” 

“You do what you can for the house,” said Margaret. 
“The drawing-room reeks of smoke.” 

“If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn 
masculine. Atmosphere is probably a question of 
touch and go. Even at Queen Victoria’s dinner-party 
— if something had been just a little different — perhaps 




52 


Howards End 


if she ’d worn a clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a 
magenta satin ” 

“With an India shawl over her shoulders ” 

“Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin ” 

Bursts of disloyal laughter — you must remember that 
they are half German — greeted these suggestions, and 
Margaret said pensively, “How inconceivable it would 
be if the Royal Family cared about Art.” And the con- 
versation drifted away and away, and Helen’s cigarette 
turned to a spot in the darkness, and the great flats op- 
posite were sown with lighted windows which vanished 
and were relit again, and vanished incessantly. Beyond 
them the thoroughfare roared gently — a tide that could 
never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the 
smokes of Wapping, the moon was rising. 

“That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken 
that young man into the dining-room, at all events. 
Only the majolica plate — and that is so firmly set in the 
wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea.” 

For that little incident had impressed the three women 
more than might be supposed. It remained as a goblin 
footfall, as a hint that all is not for the best in the best 
of all possible worlds, and that beneath these super- 
structures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed 
boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has 
left no address behind him, and no name. 


CHAPTER VI 


Leonard and Jacky 

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are 
unthinkable and only to be approached by the statistician 
or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with 
those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk. 

The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of 
gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see 
it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, 
and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and 
would admit it; he would have died sooner than con- 
fess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid 
of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there 
is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as 
the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, 
nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike 
underfed, because he was poor, and because he was 
modern they were always craving better food. Had he 
lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilisa- 
tions of the past, he would have had a definite status, his 
rank and his income would have corresponded. But in 
his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing 
the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming, “All 
men are equal — all men, that is to say, who possess 
umbrellas,” and so he was obliged to assert gentility, 
53 


54 


Howards End 


lest he slip into the abyss where nothing counts, and 
the statements of Democracy are inaudible. 

As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care 
was to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels. 
Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them 
in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real 
ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill- 
natured and cold. At each step his feeling of superiority 
increased. Would a real lady have talked about steal- 
ing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all, 
and if he had gone into the house they would have 
clapped a chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He 
walked on complacently as far as the Houses of Parlia- 
ment. There an empty stomach asserted itself, and 
told him that he was a fool. 

“Evening, Mr. Bast.” 

“Evening, Mr. Dealtry.” 

“Nice evening.” 

“Evening.” 

Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard 
stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far 
as a penny would take him, or whether he would walk. 
He decided to walk — it is no good giving in, and he had 
spent money enough at Queen’s Hall — and he walked 
over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas’s 
Hospital, and through the immense tunnel that passes 
under the South-Western main line at Vauxhall. In the 
tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the trains. 
A sharp pain darted through his head, and he was con- 
scious of the exact form of his eye sockets. He pushed 
on for another mile, and did not slacken speed until he 
stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road 
which was at present his home. 


55 


Leonard and Jacky 

Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to 
right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its 
hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheap- 
ness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road 
two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an 
old house was being demolished to accommodate an- 
other pair. It was the kind of scene that may be 
observed all over London, whatever the locality — bricks 
and mortar rising and falling with the restlessness of the 
water in a fountain as the city receives more and more 
men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out 
like a fortress, and command, for a little, an extensive 
view. Only for a little. Plans were out for the erection 
of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few 
years, and all the flats in either road might be pulled 
down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present un- 
imaginable, might arise where they had fallen. 

“ Evening, Mr. Bast.” 

“Evening, Mr. Cunningham.” 

“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in 
Manchester.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in 
Manchester,” repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the 
Sunday paper, in which the calamity in question had 
just been announced to him. 

“Ah, yes,” said Leonard, who was not going to let on 
that he had not bought a Sunday paper. 

“If this kind of thing goes on the population of Eng- 
land will be stationary in i960.” 

“You don’t say so.” 

“I call it a very serious thing, eh?” 

“Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham.” 


56 


Howards End 


“Good-evening, Mr. Bast.” 

Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned, 
not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house 
agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar. 

He opened the door, and cried, “Hullo ! ” with the pseudo 
geniality of the Cockney. There was no reply. “Hul- 
lo!” he repeated. The sitting-room was empty, though 
the electric light had been left burning. A look of 
relief came over his face, and he flung himself into the 
armchair. 

The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, 
two other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a 
cosy comer. Of the walls, one was occupied by the 
window, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling 
with Cupids. Opposite the window was the door, and 
beside the door a bookcase, while over the piano there 
extended one of the masterpieces of Maud Goodman. 

It was an amorous and not unpleasant little hole when 
the curtains were drawn, and the lights turned on, and 
the gas-stove unlit. But it struck that shallow make- 
shift note that is so often heard in the modern dwell- 
ing-place. It had been too easily gained, and could be 
relinquished too easily. 

As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the 
three-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourably 
poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace, i 
and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and 
picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady 
called Jacky, and had been taken at the time when 
young ladies called Jacky were often photographed with 
their mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended 
along either of Jacky’s jaws, and positively weighed 
her head sideways, so large were they and so numerous. 


57 


Leonard and Jacky 

Take my word for it, that smile was simply stunning, 
and it is only you and I who will be fastidious, and com- 
plain that true joy begins in the eyes, and that the eyes 
of Jacky did not accord with her smile, but were anxious 
and hungry. 

Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and 
cut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell 
on the frame, another followed, spilling over on to the 
exposed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and 
dashed into the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. 
The kitchen was the same size as the sitting-room; 
beyond it was a bedroom. This completed his home. 
He was renting the flat furnished; of all the objects that 
encumbered it none were his own except the photograph 
frame, the Cupids, and the books. 

“Damn, damn, damnation!” he murmured, together 
with such other words as he had learnt from older men. 
Then he raised his hand to his forehead and said, “Oh, 
damn it all — ” which meant something different. He 
pulled himself together. He drank a little tea, black 
and silent, that still survived upon an upper shelf. He 
swallowed some dusty crumbs of a cake. Then he went 
back to the sitting-room, settled himself anew, and began 
to read a volume of Ruskin. 

“Seven miles to the north of Venice ” 

How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How 
supreme its command of admonition and of poetry! 
The rich man is speaking to us from his gondola. 

“Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand 
which nearer the city rise little above low- water mark at- 
tain by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves at last 
into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into shape- 
less mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea,” 


58 


Howards End 


Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin; he 
understood him to be the greatest master of English 
Prose. He read forward steadily, occasionally making a 
few notes. 

“Let us consider a little each of these characters in 
succession, and first (for of the shafts enough has been 
said already), what is very peculiar to this church — its 
luminousness.” 

Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sentence? 
Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life? Could he 
introduce it, with modifications, when he next wrote a 
letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example: 

“Let us consider a little each of these characters in 
succession, and first (for of the absence of ventilation 
enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to 
this flat — its obscurity.” 

Something told him that the modifications would not 
do; and that something, had he known it, was the spirit 
of English Prose. “My flat is dark as well as stuffy.” 
Those were the words for him. 

And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping melo- 
diously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high purpose, 
full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the love of 
men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and insist- 
ent in Leonard’s life. For it was the voice of one who 
had never been dirty or hungry, and had not guessed 
successfully what dirt and hunger are. 

Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that 
he was being done good to, and that if he kept on with 
Ruskin, and the Queen’s Hall Concerts, and some 
pictures by Watts, he would one day push his head out 
of the grey waters and see the universe. He believed in 
sudden conversion, a belief which may be right, but 


59 


Leonard and Jacky 

which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. 
It is the basis of much popular religion ; in the domain of 
business it dominates the Stock Exchange, and becomes 
that “bit of luck” by which all successes and failures are 
explained. “If only I had a bit of luck, the whole 
thing would come straight. ... He ’s got a most mag- 
nificent place down at Streatham and a 20 h. p. Fiat, 
but then, mind you, he *s had luck. ...I’m sorry the 
wife ’s so late, but she never has any luck over catching 
trains.” Leonard was superior to these people; he did 
believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the 
change that he desired. But of a heritage that may ex- 
pand gradually, he had no conception; he hoped to come 
to Culture suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to 
come to Jesus. Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; 
they had done the trick; their hands were upon the ropes, 
once and for all. And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as 
well as stuffy. 

Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut 
up Margaret’s card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened 
the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to 
say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was 
awesome. She seemed all strings and bell-pulls — rib- 
bons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and caught — 
and a boa of azure feathers hung round her neck, with 
the ends uneven. Her throat was bare, wound with 
a double row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows, 
and might again be detected at the shoulder, through 
cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, resembled 
those punnets, covered with flannel, which we sowed 
with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which ger- 
minated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back 
of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are 


6o 


Howards End 


too complicated to describe, but one system went down 
her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, 
created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her fore- 
head. The face — the face does not signify. It was the 
face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were 
not so numerous as the photographer had suggested, and 
certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her prime, 
whatever that prime may have been. She was descend- 
ing quicker than most women into the colourless years, 
and the look in her eyes confessed it.” 

“What ho ! ” said Leonard, greeting the apparition with 
much spirit, and helping it off with its boa. 

Jacky, in husky tones, replied, “What ho!” 

“Been out?” he asked. The question sounds super- 
fluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady 
answered, “No,” adding, “Oh, I am so tired.” 

“You tired?” 

“Eh?” 

“I ’m tired,” said he, hanging the boa up. 

“Oh, Len, I am so tired.” 

“ I ’ve been to that classical concert I told you about,” 
said Leonard. 

“What ’s that?” 

“I came back as soon as it was over.” 

“Any one been round to our place?” asked Jacky. 

“Not that I ’ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham out- 
side, and we passed a few remarks.” 

“What, not Mr. Cunningham?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham.” 

“Yes. Mr. Cunningham.” 

“I ’ve been out to tea at a lady friend’s.” 

Her secret being at last given to the world, and the 


6i 


Leonard and Jacky 

name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky 
made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring 
art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. 
Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her 
smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was 

“ On the shelf, 

On the shelf, 

Boys, boys, I ’m on the shelf,” 

she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts 
of song (of which the above is an example) still issued 
from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. J 

She sat down on Leonard’s knee, and began to fondle 
him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, 
and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say 
anything. Then she said, “Is that a book you ’re read- 
ing?” and he said, “That ’s a book,” and drew it from 
her unreluctant grasp. Margaret’s card fell out of it. 
It fell face downwards, and he murmured, “Book- 
marker.” 

“Len ” 

“What is it?” he asked, a little wearily, for she only 
had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his 
knee. 

“You do love me?” 

“Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such 
questions!” 

“But you do love me, Len, don’t you?” 

“Of course I do.” 

A pause. The other remark was still due. 

“Len ” 

“Well? What is it?” 

“Len, you will make it all right?” 


62 


Howards End 


“I can’t have you ask me that again,” said the boy, 
flaring up into a sudden passion. “I’ve promised to 
marry you when I ’m of age, and that ’s enough. My 
word ’s my word. I ’ve promised to marry you as soon 
as ever I ’m twenty-one, and I can’t keep on being wor- 
ried. I ’ve worries enough. It is n’t likely I ’d throw 
you over, let alone my word, when I ’ve spent all this 
money. Besides, I ’m an Englishman, and I never go 
back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course 
I ’ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me.” 

“When ’s your birthday, Len?” 

“I’ve told you again and again, the eleventh of 
November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one 
must get supper, I suppose.” 

Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see 
to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp 
puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began 
to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into 
the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking 
with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his 
temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to 
complain bitterly. 

“It really is too bad when a fellow is n’t trusted. It 
makes one feel so wild, when I ’ve pretended to the peo- 
ple here that you ’re my wife — all right, all right, you 
shall be my wife — and I ’ve bought you the ring to wear, 
and I ’ve taken this flat furnished, and it ’s far more than 
I can afford, and yet you are n’t content, and I ’ve also 
not told the truth when I ’ve written home.” He low- 
ered his voice. “He ’d stop it.” In a tone of horror, 
that was a little luxurious, he repeated: “My brother ’d 
stop it. I ’m going against the whole world, Jacky. 

“That ’s what I am, Jacky, I don’t take any heed of 


63 


Leonard and Jacky 

what any one says. I just go straight forward, I do. 
That ’s always been my way. I ’m not one of your weak 
knock-kneed chaps. If a woman ’s in trouble, I don’t 
leave her in the lurch. That ’s not my street. No, 
thank you. 

“I ’ll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal 
about improving myself by means of Literature and 
Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when 
you came in I was reading Ruskin’s Stones of Venice . 
I don’t say this to boast, but just to show you the kind 
of man I am. I can tell you, I enjoyed that classical 
concert this afternoon.” 

To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. 
When supper was ready — and not before — she emerged 
from the bedroom, saying: “But you do love me, don’t 
you ? ” 

They began with a soup square, which Leonard had 
just dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by 
the tongue — a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little 
jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the 
bottom — ending with another square dissolved in water 
(jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier 
in the day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally 
looking at her man with those anxious eyes, to which 
nothing else in her appearance corresponded, and which 
yet seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed 
to convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing 
meal. 

After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a 
few statements. She observed that her “likeness” had 
been broken. He found occasion to remark, for the 
second time, that he had come straight back home after 
the concert at Queen’s Hall. Presently she sat upon his 


6 4 


Howards End 


knee. The inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and 
fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads, 
and the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to 
sing, “Hark, my soul, it is the Lord.” 

“That tune fairly gives me the hump,” said Leonard. 

Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she 
thought it a lovely tune. 

“No; I ’ll play you something lovely. . Get up, dear, 
for a minute.” 

He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. 
He played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was 
not without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she ’d 
be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests 
possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had 
been said about music by that odd Miss Schlegel — the 
one that twisted her face about so when she spoke. 
Then the thoughts grew sad and envious. There was the 
girl named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and 
the German girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and 
Herr some one, and Aunt some one, and the brother — 
all, all with their hands on the ropes. They had all 
passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham Place 
to some ample room, whither he could never follow them, 
not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was no good, 
this continual aspiration. Some are born cultured; the 
rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see 
life steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of 
him. 

From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, 
“Len?” 

“You in bed?” he asked, his forehead twitching. 
“M’m.” 

“All right.” 


Leonard and Jacky 


65 


Presently she called him again. 

“I must clean my boots ready for the morning,” he 
answered. 

Presently she called him again. 

“I rather want to get this chapter done.” 

“What?” 

He closed his ears against her. 

“What ’s that?” 

“All right, Jacky, nothing; I ’m reading a book.” 

“What?” 

“What?” he answered, catching her degraded 
deafness. 

Presently she called him again. 

Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was 
ordering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It oc- 
curred to him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons, 
that the power of Nature could not be shortened by the 
folly, nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery 
of such as Leonard. 


5 


CHAPTER VII 


The New Neighbours 

“Oh, Margaret,” cried her aunt next morning, “such a 
most unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get 
you alone.” 

The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. 
One of the flats in the ornate block opposite had been 
taken furnished by the Wilcox family, “coming up, no 
doubt, in the hope of getting into London society.” 
That Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the mis- 
fortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested 
in the flats, that she watched their every mutation with 
unwearying care. In theory she despised them — they 
took away that old-world look — they cut off the sun — 
flats house a flashy type of person. But if the truth had 
been known, she found her visits to Wickham Place 
twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen, 
and would in a couple of days learn more about them 
than her nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in 
a couple of years. She would stroll across and make 
friends with the porters, and inquire what the rents were, 
exclaiming for example: “What! a hundred and twenty 
for a basement? You’ll never get it!” And they 
would answer : * ‘ One can but try, madam. ’ * The passen- 
66 


67 


The New Neighbours 

ger lifts, the provision lifts, the arrangement for coals 
(a great temptation for a dishonest porter), were all 
familiar matters to her, and perhaps a relief from the 
politico-economical-sesthetic atmosphere that reigned at 
the Schlegels’. 

Margaret received the information calmly, and did 
not agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen’s 
life. 

“Oh, but Helen isn’t a girl with no interests,” she 
explained. “She has plenty of other things and other 
people to think about. She made a false start with the 
Wilcoxes, and she ’ll be as willing as we are to have 
nothing more to do with them. ” 

“For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. 
Helen ’ll have to have something more to do with them, 
now that they ’re all opposite. She may meet that Paul 
in the street. She cannot very well not bow. ” 

“Of course she must bow. But look here ; let ’s do the 
flowers. I was going to say, the will to be interested 
in him has died, and what else matters? I look on that 
disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the 
killing of a nerve in Helen. It ’s dead, and she ’ll 
never be troubled with it again. The only things that 
matter are the things that interest one. Bowing, even 
calling and leaving cards, even a dinner-party — we can 
do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agree- 
able; but the other thing, the one important thing — 
never again. Don’t you see?” 

Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was 
making a most questionable statement — that any emo- 
tion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die. 

“I also have the honour to inform you that the Wil- 
coxes are bored with us, I did n’t tell you at the time — 


68 


Howards End 


it might have made you angry, and you had enough to 
worry you — but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W, and apolo- 
gised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She 
didn’t answer it.” 

“How very rude!” 

“I wonder. Or was it sensible?” 

“No, Margaret, most rude.” 

“In either case one can class it as reassuring. ” 

Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage 
on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. 
Other regrets crowded upon her : for instance, how magni- 
ficently she would have cut Charles if she had met him 
face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order 
to the porter — and very common he looked in a tall hat. 
But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and 
though she had cut his back, she could not regard this 
as a telling snub. 

“But you will be careful, won’t you?” she exhorted. 

“Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful.” 

“And Helen must be careful, too.” 

“Careful over what?” cried Helen, at that moment 
coming into the room with her cousin. 

“Nothing ” said Margaret, seized with a momentary 
awkwardness. 

“Careful over what, Aunt Juley?” 

Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. “It is only that a 
certain family, whom we know by name but do not 
mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, 
have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons — where 
the plants are in the balcony.” 

Helen began some laughing reply, and then discon- 
certed them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so dis- 
concerted that she exclaimed, “What, Helen, you don’t 


The New Neighbours 69 

mind them coming, do you?” and deepened the blush to 
crimson. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Helen a little crossly. 
“It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave 
about it, when there ’s nothing to be grave about at all. ” 

“I’m not grave,” protested Margaret, a little cross 
in her turn. 

“Well, you look grave; does n’t she, Frieda?” 

“I don’t feel grave, that’s all I can say; you’re going 
quite on the wrong tack. ” 

“No, she does not feel grave,” echoed Mrs. Munt. 
“I can bear witness to that. She disagrees ” 

“Hark!” interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. “I hear 
Bruno entering the hall.” 

For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call 
for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall 
— in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. 
But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that 
she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down 
below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish 
arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if 
to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she 
stopped in the doorway and said : 

“ Did you say the Mathesons’ flat, Aunt Juley ? How 
wonderful you are! I never knew that the name of the 
woman who laced too tightly was Matheson.” 

“Come, Helen,” said her cousin. 

“Go, Helen,” said her aunt; and continued to Mar- 
garet almost in the same breath: “Helen cannot deceive 
me. She does mind. ” 

“Oh, hush!” breathed Margaret. “Frieda ’ll hear 
you, and she can be so tiresome.” 

“She minds,” persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thought- 


70 


Howards End 


fully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthe- 
mums out of the vases. “ I knew she ’d mind — and I ’m 
sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful 
coarse-grained people! I know more about them than 
you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you 
that motor drive — well, you ’d have reached the house 
a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don’t know what 
you are in for! They’re all bottled up against the 
drawing-room window. There ’s Mrs. Wilcox — I ’ve 
seen her. There’s Paul. There’s Evie, who is a minx. 
There ’s Charles — I saw him to start with. And who 
would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper- 
coloured face be?’ 

“Mr. Wilcox, possibly.’’ 

“I knew it. And there ’s Mr. Wilcox.” 

“It ’s a shame to call his face copper colour,” com- 
plained Margaret. “He has a remarkably good com- 
plexion for a man of his age.” 

Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to 
concede Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on 
from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should 
pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her. 

“Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but 
the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there ’s no 
need for plans. ” 

“It ’s as well to be prepared.” 

“No — it ’s as well not to be prepared.” 

“Why?” 

“Because ” 

Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. 
She could not explain in so many words, but she felt 
that those who prepare for all the emergencies of life 
beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of 


7i 


The New Neighbours 

joy. It is necessary to prepare for an examination, or 
a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price of stock: 
those who attempt human relations must adopt another 
method, or fail. ‘‘Because I ’d sooner risk it,” was her 
lame conclusion. 

“But imagine the evenings,” exclaimed her aunt, 
pointing to the Mansions with the spout of the watering- 
can. “Turn the electric light on here or there, and it ’s 
almost the same room. One evening they may forget 
to draw their blinds down, and you’ll see them; and the 
next, you yours, and they ’ll see you. Impossible to 
sit out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants, 
or even speak. Imagine going out of the front-door, and 
they come out opposite at the same moment. And yet 
you tell me that plans are unnecessary, and you ’d 
rather risk it. ” 

“I hope to risk things all my life. ” 

“Oh, Margaret, most dangerous.” 

“But after all,” she continued with a smile, “there ’s 
never any great risk as long as you have money. ” 

“Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!” 

“Money pads the edges of things, ” said Miss Schlegel. 
“God help those who have none. ” 

“But this is something quite new!” said Mrs. Munt, 
who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and 
was especially attracted by those that are portable. 

“New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it 
for years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money 
as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we 
forget its very existence. It ’s only when we see some 
one near us tottering that we realise all that an indepen- 
dent income means. Last night, when we were talking 
up here round the fire, I began to think that the very 


72 


Howards End 


soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss 
is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin. ” 

“I call that rather cynical.* * 

“So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, 
when we are tempted to criticise others, that we are 
standing on these islands, and that most of the others 
are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot 
always reach those whom they want to love, and they 
can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no 
longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June, 
if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and 
could n’t invoke railways and motor-cars to part them. ” 
“That’s more like Socialism,” said Mrs. Munt 
suspiciously. 

“Call it what you like. I call it going through iife 
with one ’s hand spread open on the table. I ’m tired 
of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think 
it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that 
keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year 
upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and 
Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds 
crumble away into the sea they are renewed — from the 
sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the 
thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches ; 
and because we don’t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, 
we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them 
and do steal them sometimes, and that what’s a joke 

up here is down there reality ” 

“There they go — there goes Fraulein Mosebach. 
Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. 

Oh! ” 

“What is it?” 

“Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes’ flat.” 


73 


The New Neighbours 

“Why should n’t she?” 

“I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was 
it you were saying about reality?” 

“I had worked round to myself, as usual,” answered 
Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied. 

“Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich 
or for the poor?” 

“Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty 
or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches! ” 

“For riches!” echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, 
at last secured her nut. 

“Yes. For riches. Money for ever!” 

“So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my ac- 
quaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you 
agree with us. ” 

“Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have 
talked theories, you have done the flowers.” 

“Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you 
in more important things.” 

“Well, would you be very kind? Would you come 
round with me to the registry office? There ’s a house- 
maid who won’t say yes but does n’t say no. ” 

On their way thither they too looked up at the Wil- 
coxes’ flat. Evie was in the balcony, “staring most 
rudely,” according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a 
nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof 
against a passing encounter, but — Margaret began to 
lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if 
the family were living close against her eyes? And 
Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another 
fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, 
and quite capable of remarking, “You love one of the 
young gentlemen opposite, yes?” The remark would 


74 


Howards End 


be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough, 
may become true; just as the remark, “England and 
Germany are bound to fight,” renders war a little more 
likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made 
the more readily by the gutter press of either nation. 
Have the private emotions also their gutter press? 
Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Juley 
and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, 
by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the 
desires of June. Into a repetition — they could not do 
more ; they could not lead her into lasting love. They 
were — she saw it clearly — Journalism; her father, with 
all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been Litera- 
ture, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his 
daughter rightly. 

The registry office was holding its morning reception. 
A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel 
waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an 
insidious “temporary, ” being rejected by genuine house- 
maids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure 
depressed her, and though she forgot the failure, the 
depression remained. On her way home she again 
glanced up at the Wilcoxes’ flat, and took the rather 
matronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen. 

“Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries 
you.” 

“ If what?” said Helen, who was washing her hands for 
lunch. 

“The Ws’ coming.” 

“ No, of course not. ” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” Then she admitted that she was a little 
worried on Mrs. Wilcox’s account ; she implied that Mrs. 


75 


The New Neighbours 

Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be 
pained by things that never touched the other members 
of that clan. “ I shan’t mind if Paul points at our house 
and says, ‘There lives the girl who tried to catch me.’ 
But she might. ” 

“ If even that worries you, we could arrange something. 
There ’s no reason we should be near people who dis- 
please us or whom we displease, thanks to our money. 
We might even go away for a little. ” 

“Well, I am going away. Frieda ’s just asked me to 
Stettin, and I shan’t be back till after the New Year. 
Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? 
Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a 
fuss?” 

“ Oh, I ’m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I 
minded nothing, but really I — I should be bored if you 
fell in love with the same man twice and” — she cleared 
her throat — “you did go red, you know, when Aunt 
Juley attacked you this morning. I should n’t have 
referred to it otherwise. ” 

But Helen’s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy 
hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and 
nohow, would she again fall in love with any of the 
Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Margaret Takes the Bull by the Homs 

The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, 
which was to develop so quickly and with such strange 
results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, 
in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at 
the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of 
her husband and Helen, may have detected in the other 
and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy, 
a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such 
things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss 
Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret 
whose presence she had particularly desired. All this 
is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear indications 
behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wick- 
ham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen 
was going with her cousin to Stettin. 

“Helen!” cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones 
(she was now in her cousin’s confidence) — “his mother 
has forgiven you!” And then, remembering that in 
England the new-comer ought not to call before she is 
called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disap- 
proval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. 

“Bother the whole family!” snapped Margaret. 
“Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish 
your packing. Why can’t the woman leave us alone?” 

76 


77 


Margaret Takes Action 

“I don’t know what I shall do with Meg,” Helen 
retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. She ’s got Wilcox 
and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don’t love the 
young gentleman; I don’t love the young gentleman, 
Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?” 

“ Most certainly her love has died, ” asserted Fraulein 
Mosebach. 

“Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not pre- 
vent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return 
the call.” 

Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, 
who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. 
“Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg’s going to return 
the call, and I can’t. ‘Cos why? ’Cos I ’m going to 
German-eye. ” 

“If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you 
are n’t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me. ” 

“But, Meg, Meg, I don’t love the young gentleman; 
I don’t love the young — O lud, who ’s that coming down 
the stairs? I vow ’t is my brother. O crimini!” 

A male — even such a male as Tibby — was enough to 
stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing 
among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side 
of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin 
much about Paul ; she told her brother nothing. It was 
not prudishness, for she now spoke of “the Wilcox 
ideal” with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. 
Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any 
news that did not concern himself. It was rather the 
feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, 
and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, 
it would become important on that. So she stopped, or 
rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long- 


78 


Howards End 


suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mose- 
bach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the 
banisters to Margaret, “It is all right — she does not 
love the young man — he has not been worthy of her. ” 

“Yes, I know; thanks very much.” 

“I thought I did right to tell you.” 

“Ever so many thanks.” 

“What ’s that?” asked Tibby. No one told him, and 
he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. 

That evening Margaret took decisive action. The 
house was very quiet, and the fog — we are in November 
now — pressed against the windows like an excluded 
ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had 
gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched 
on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. 
Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally 
marshalled them all in review. The practical person, 
who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows 
nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this 
was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, 
no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out 
as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. 
The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the 
native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was 
with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that 
leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been 
wiped away. 

“Dear Mrs. Wilcox, 

‘ ‘ I have to write something discourteous. It would be 
better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt 
have given displeasure to your family, and, in my 
sister’s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. 


79 


Margaret Takes Action 

So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts 
with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or 
to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our 
acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end. 

“I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I 
know that you will not, since you have been good enough 
to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and 
no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, un- 
doubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her 
knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her 
with my discourtesy. 

“ Believe me, 

“Yours truly, 

“M. J. SCHLEGEL.” 

Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next 
morning she received the following reply by hand : 

“Dear Miss Schlegel, 

“You should not have written me such a letter. I 
called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad. 

“Ruth Wilcox.” 

Margaret’s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her 
breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told* 
her that the youth was leaving England, but other things 
had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. 
All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their 
place arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. 
Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste 
in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, 
but woe to those who employ it without due need. She 
flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and 
plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips 


8o 


Howards End 


were compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and 
in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble 
vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up 
the stairs till she reached the second floor. 

She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown 
straight into Mrs. Wilcox’s bedroom. 

“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. 
I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say.” 

Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and 
did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in 
bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her 
knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. 
The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the 
light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo 
round her hands combined to create a strange atmosphere 
of dissolution. 

“I knew he was going to India in November, but I 
forgot.” 

“He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa. ” 

“I knew — I know. I have been too absurd all through. 
I am very much ashamed. ” 

Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. 

“I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you 
will forgive me.” 

“It does n’t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you 
to have come round so promptly.” 

* ‘ It does matter, ’ ’ cried Margaret. * 1 1 have been rude 
to you ; and my sister is not even at home, so there was 
not even that excuse.” 

“Indeed?” 

“She has just gone to Germany.” 

“She gone as well,” murmured the other. “Yes, 
certainly, it is quite safe — safe, absolutely, now.” 


Margaret Takes Action 81 

“You ’ve been worrying too!” exclaimed Margaret, 
getting more and more excited, and taking a chair with- 
out invitation. “How perfectly extraordinary! I can 
see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn’t 
meet him again.’* 

“I did think it best.” 

“Now why?” 

“That ’s a most difficult question,” said Mrs. Wilcox, 
smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance. 
“ I think you put it best in your letter — it was an instinct, 
which may be wrong.” 

“It was n’t that your son still ” 

“Oh no; he often — my Paul is very young, you see.” 

“Then what was it?” 

She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.” 

“In other words, they belong to types that can fall 
in love, but could n’t live together. That ’s dreadfully 
probable. I ’m afraid that in nine cases out of ten 
Nature pulls one way and human nature another.” 

“These are indeed ‘other words,’” said Mrs. Wilcox. 
“I had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely 
alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sister.’ ’ 

“Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How 
did you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt 
drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things. 
Did Paul tell you?” 

“There is nothing to be gained by discussing that,” 
said Mrs. Wilcox after a moment’s pause. 

“ Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June ? 
I wrote you a letter and you did n’t answer it. ” 

“I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat. 
I knew it was opposite your house. ” 

“But it ’s all right now?” 

6 


82 


Howards End 


“I think so.” 

“You only think? You are n’t sure? I do love these 
little muddles tidied up?” 

“Oh yes, I ’m sure,” said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with 
uneasiness beneath the clothes. “I always sound 
uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking.” 

“That ’s all right, and I ’m sure, too.” 

Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. 
They were interrupted, and when they resumed conver- 
sation it was on more normal lines. 

“I must say good-bye now — you will be getting up.” 

“No — please stop a little longer — I am taking a day 
in bed. Now and then I do. ” 

“I thought of you as one of the early risers. ” 

“At Howards End — yes; there is nothing to get up 
for in London. ” 

“Nothing to get up for?” cried the scandalised 
Margaret. “When there are all the autumn exhibitions, 
and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention 
people. ” 

“The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the 
wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting 
yesterday, I paid a round of calls.” 

“A wedding?” 

“Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.” 

“Indeed!” 

“We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that 
Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a 
cousin of my husband’s, and she most kindly offered it 
to us. So before the day came we were able to make the 
acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet 
done.” 

Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were. 


Margaret Takes Action 83 

“Fussell. The father is in the Indian army — retired; 
the brother is in the army. The mother is dead. ” 

So perhaps these were the “chinless sunburnt men” 
whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the 
window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes 
of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on 
Helen’s account, and it still clung to her. She asked for 
more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, 
and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. 
Wilcox’s voice, though sweet and compelling, had little 
range of expression. It suggested that pictures, con- 
certs, and people are all of small and equal value. Only 
once had it quickened — when speaking of Howards End. 

“Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another 
some time. They belong to the same club, and are both 
devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe 
not so well/ and they first met in a mixed foursome. We 
all like her, and are very much pleased. They were 
married on the nth, a few days before Paul sailed. 
Charles was very anxious to have his brother as best 
man, so he made a great point of having it on the nth. 
The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, 
but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly’s 
photograph — in that double frame.” 

“Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting, 
Mrs. Wilcox?” 

“Yes, quite.” 

“Then I will stay. I ’m enjoying this. ” 

Dolly’s photograph was now examined. It was signed 
“For dear Mims,” which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as 
“the name she and Charles had settled that she should 
call me.” Dolly looked silly, and had one of those 
triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a 


8 4 


Howards End 


robust man. She was very pretty. From her Margaret 
passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite. 
She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two 
together till God parted them. She found time to hope 
that they would be happy. 

'‘They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon.” 

“Lucky people!” 

“ I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy. ” 

“Does n’t he care for travelling?” 

“ He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. 
What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I 
think that would have carried the day if the weather had 
not been so abominable. His father gave him a car 
for a wedding present, which for the present is being 
stored at Howards End.” 

“I suppose you have a garage there?” 

“Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, 
to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in 
what used to be the paddock for the pony. ” 

The last words had an indescribable ring about 
them. 

“Where’s the pony gone?” asked Margaret after a 
pause. 

“ The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago. ” 

}k “The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a 
very splendid tree.” 

“It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your 
sister tell you about the teeth?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs’ teeth 
stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. 
The country people put them in long ago, and they think 
that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the 


Margaret Takes Action 85 

toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and 
no one comes to the tree.”^\ 

' “I should. I love folklore and all festering super- 
stitions.” 

“ Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, 
if one believed in it?” 

“Of course it did. It would cure anything — once.” 

“Certainly I remember cases — you see I lived at 
Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I 
was born there.” 

The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed 
little more than aimless chatter. She was interested 
when her hostess explained that Howards End was her 
own property. She was bored when too minute an 
account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties 
of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of 
Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. 
Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inatten- 
tive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, 
smashed Dolly’s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut 
her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must 
be going — there was all the housekeeping to do, and she 
had to interview Tibby’s riding-master. 

Then the curious note was struck again. 

“Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you 
for coming. You have cheered me up. ” 

“I ’m so glad!” 

“I — I wonder whether you ever think about 
yourself ? ” 

“ I think of nothing else, ” said Margaret, blushing, but 
letting her hand remain in that of the invalid. 

“I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg.” 

“/’m sure!” 


86 


Howards End 


‘ ‘ I almost think ’ ’ 

“Yes?” asked Margaret, for there was a long pause — 
a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, 
the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the 
white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and 
eternal shadows. 

“ I almost think you forget you ’re a girl. ” 

Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. “I’m 
twenty-nine,” she remarked. “That’s not so wildly 
girlish.” 

Mrs. Wilcox smiled. 

“What makes you say that? Do you mean that I 
have been gauche and rude? ” 

A shake of the head. “I only meant that I am fifty- 
one, and that to me both of you — Read it all in some 
book or other; I cannot put things clearly.” 

“Oh, I ’ve got it — inexperience. I ’m no better than 
Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her. ” 

“Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the 
word.” 

“Inexperience,” repeated Margaret, in serious yet 
buoyant tones. “Of course, I have everything to learn 
— absolutely everything — just as much as Helen. Life’ s 
very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I ’ve 
got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight 
ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember 
the submerged — well, one can’t do all these things at 
once, worse luck, because they ’re so contradictory. 
It ’s then that proportion comes in — to live by propor- 
tion. Don’t begin with proportion. Only prigs do 
that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when 
the better things have failed, and a deadlock — Gracious 
me, I ’ve started preaching!” 


87 


Margaret Takes Action 

“Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly,” 
said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper 
shadows. “It is just what I should have liked to say 
about them myself. ” 


CHAPTER IX 

A Luncheon-Party 

Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret 
much information about life. And Margaret, on the 
other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, and has 
pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not 
feel. She had kept house for over ten years; she had 
entertained, almost with distinction; she had brought 
up a charming sister, and was bringing up a brother. 
Surely, if experience is attainable, she had attained it. 

Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. 
Wilcox’s honour was not a success. The new friend did 
not blend with the “one or two delightful people” who 
had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was one 
of polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her 
knowledge of culture slight, and she was not interested 
in the New English Art Club, nor in the dividing-line 
between Journalism and Literature, which was started 
as a conversational hare. The delightful people darted 
after it with cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and not 
till the meal was half over did they realise that the princi- 
pal guest had taken no part in the chase. There was no 
common topic. Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been spent 
in the service of husband and sons, had little to say to 
88 


8 9 


A Luncheon-Party 

strangers who had never shared it, and whose age was 
half her own. Clever talk alarmed her, and withered 
her delicate imaginings; it was the social counterpart 
of a motor-car, all jerks, and she was a wisp of hay, a 
flower. Twice she deplored the weather, twice criticised 
the train service on the Great Northern Railway. They 
vigorously assented, and rushed on, and when she inquired 
whether there was any news of Helen, her hostess was 
too much occupied in placing Rothenstein to answer. 
The question was repeated: “I hope that your sister 
is safe in Germany by now. ” Margaret checked herself 
and said, “ Yes, thank you; I heard on Tuesday.” But 
the demon of vociferation was in her, and the next 
moment she was off again. 

“Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. 
Did you ever know any one living at Stettin?” 

“Never,” said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neigh- 
bour, a young man low down in the Education Office, 
began to discuss what people who lived at Stettin ought 
to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity? 
Margaret swept on. 

“People at Stettin drop things into boats out of over- 
hanging warehouses. At least, our cousins do, but 
aren’t particularly rich. The town isn’t interesting, 
except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the 
Oder, which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. 
Wilcox, you would love the Oder! The river, or rather 
rivers — there seem to be dozens of them — are intense 
blue, and the plain they run through an intensest green. ” 

“Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, 
Miss Schlegel.” 

“So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says 
no, it ’s like music. The course of the Oder is to be like 


go 


Howards End 


music. It ’s obliged to remind her of a symphonic poem. 
The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I remem- 
ber rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed. 
There is a slodgy theme in several keys at once, meaning 
mud-banks, and another for the navigable canal, and the 
exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major, pianissimo. ” 

“What do the overhanging warehouses make of that? ” 
asked the man, laughing. 

“They make a great deal of it,” replied Margaret, 
unexpectedl} rushing off on a new track. “I think it ’s 
affectation to compare the Oder to music, and so do you, 
but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty 
seriously, which we don’t, and the average Englishman 
does n’t, and despises all who do. Now don’t say 
‘Germans have no taste,’ or I shall scream. They 
have n’t. But — but — such a tremendous but ! — they 
take poetry seriously. They do take poetry seriously.” 

“Is anything gained by that?” 

“Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for 
beauty. He may miss it through stupidity, or misinter- 
pret it, but he is always asking beauty to enter his life, 
and I believe that in the end it will come. At Heidelberg 
I met a fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with 
sobs as he repeated some mawkish poetry. So easy 
for me to laugh — I, who never repeat poetry, good or 
bad, and cannot remember one fragment of verse to 
thrill myself with. My blood boils — well, I ’m half 
German, so put it down to patriotism — when I listen to 
the tasteful contempt of the average islander for things 
Teutonic, whether they ’re Bbcklin or my veterinary 
surgeon. ‘Oh, Bocklin,’ they say; ‘he strains after 
beauty, he peoples Nature with gods too consciously.’ 
Of course Bocklin strains, because he wants something — 


9i 


A Luncheon-Party 

beauty and all the other intangible gifts that are floating 
about the world. So his landscapes don’t come off, and 
Leader’s do.” 

“Iam not sure that I agree. Do you?” said he, turn- 
ing to Mrs. Wilcox. 

She replied: “I think Miss Schlegel puts everything 
splendidly;” and a chill fell on the conversation. 

“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. 
It ’s such a snub to be told you put things splendidly. ” 

“ I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech inter- 
ested me so much. Generally people do not seem quite 
to like Germany. I have long wanted to hear what is 
said on the other side.” 

“The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! 
Give us your side. ” 

“I have no side. But my husband” — her voice 
softened, the chill increased — “has very little faith in the 
Continent, and our children have all taken after him. ” 

“On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent 
is in bad form?” 

Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to 
grounds. She was not intellectual, nor even alert, and 
it was odd that, all the same, she should give the idea 
of greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends 
over Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality 
that transcended their own and dwarfed their activities. 
There was no bitterness in Mrs. Wilcox; there was not 
even criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or 
uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and 
daily life were out of focus ; one or the other must show 
blurred. And at lunch she seemed more out of focus 
than usual, and nearer the line that divides daily life 
from a life that may be of greater importance 


92 


Howards End 


“You will admit, though, that the Continent — it 
seems silly to speak of ‘the Continent,’ but really it is 
all more like itself than any part of it is like England. 
England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I was 
going to say that the Continent, for good or for evil, 
is interested in ideas. Its Literature and Art have what 
one might call the kink of the unseen about them, and 
this persists even through decadence and affectation. 
There is more liberty of action in England, but for liberty 
of thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. People will there 
discuss with humility vital questions that we here think 
ourselves too good to touch with tongs.” 

“I do not want to go to Prussia,” said Mrs. Wilcox — 
“not even to see that interesting view that you were 
describing. And for discussing with humility I am too 
old. We never discuss anything at Howards End. ” 

“Then you ought to!” said Margaret. “Discussion 
keeps a house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and 
mortar alone.” 

“It cannot stand without them,” said Mrs. Wilcox, 
unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing, 
for the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts 
of the delightful people. ‘ * It cannot stand without them, 
and I sometimes think — But I cannot expect your 
generation to agree, for even my daughter disagrees 
with me here.” 

“ Never mind us or her. Do say!” 

“I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and 
discussion to men.” 

There was a little silence. 

“One admits that the arguments against the suffrage 
are extraordinarily strong,” said a girl opposite, leaning 
forward and crumbling her bread. 


A Luncheon-Party 93 

“Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am 
only too thankful not to have a vote myself. ” 

“We did n’t mean the vote, though, did we? ” supplied 
Margaret. Are n’t we differing on something much 
wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain 
what they have been since the dawn of history; or 
whether, since men have moved forward so far, they too 
may move forward a little now. I say they may. I 
would even admit a biological change.” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” 

“I must be getting back to my overhanging ware- 
house,” said the man. “They ’ve turned disgracefully 
strict.” 

Mrs. Wilcox also rose. 

“Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested 
plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind his 
only having two noises? If you must really go, I ’ll 
see you out. Won’t you even have coffee? ” 

They left the dining-room closing the door behind 
them, and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she 
said: “What an interesting life you all lead in London!” 

“No, we don’t,” said Margaret, with a sudden revul- 
sion. “We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs 
Wilcox — really — We have something quiet and stable 
at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. 
Don’t pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, 
but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me 
to you.” 

“I am used to young people,” said Mrs. Wilcox, and 
with each word she spoke the outlines of known things 
grew dim. “I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for 
we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more 
sport and politics, but — I enjoyed my lunch very much, 


94 


Howards End 


Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only 
wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I ’m 
not particularly well just to-day. For another, you 
younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. 
Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all 
in the same boat, old and young. I never forget that. ” 
They were silent for a moment. Then, with a new- 
born emotion, they shook hands. The conversation 
ceased suddenly when Margaret re-entered the dining- 
room; her friends had been talking over her new friend, 
and had dismissed her as uninteresting. 


CHAPTER X 


Christmas Shopping 

Several days passed. 

Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people — 
there are many of them — who dangle intimacy and then 
withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections, 
and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them. 
Then they withdraw. When physical passion is in- 
volved, there is a definite name for such behaviour — 
flirting — and if carried far enough it is punishable by 
law. But no law — not public opinion even — punishes 
those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache 
that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and ex- 
haustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these? 

Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner’s 
impatience, she wanted everything to be settled up 
immediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that 
are essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. 
Wilcox as a friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, 
as it were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest 
of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed 
favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. 
She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to 
reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret 
would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, or 
95 


96 


Howards End 


perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come 
all was ready. 

The crisis opened with a message : Would Miss Schlegel 
come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wil- 
cox felt behindhand with the presents. She had taken 
some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time. 
Margaret accepted, and at eleven o’clock one cheerless 
morning they started out in a brougham. 

“First of all,” began Margaret, “we must make a list 
and tick off the people’s names. My aunt always does, 
and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you 
any ideas?” 

“I thought we would go to Harrod’s or the Hay- 
market Stores,” said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. 
“Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good 
shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is 
quite right — one ought to make a list. Take my note- 
book, then, and write your own name at the top of the 
page.” 

“ Oh, hooray! ” said Margaret, writing it. “How very 
kind of you to start with me ! ” But she did not want to 
receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was 
singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the 
Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; 
the more compact families do. She did not want to be 
thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents 
since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed 
like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. 
A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she 
added: “I don’t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In 
fact, I ’d rather not.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I ’ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because 


Christmas Shopping 97 

I have all that money can buy. I want more people, 
but no more things.” 

“I should like to give you something worth your ac- 
quaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness 
to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened 
that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me 
from brooding. I am too apt to brood. ” 

“If that is so,” said Margaret, “if I have happened 
to be of use to you, which I did n’t know, you cannot 
pay me back with anything tangible.” 

“I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I 
shall think of something as we go about. ” 

Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing 
was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. 
The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like 
cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of 
grey. Mrs. Wilcox’s vitality was low that morning, and 
it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little 
girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector’s wife a copper 
warming-tray. “We always give the servants money.” 
“Yes, do you, yes, much easier,” replied Margaret but 
felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, 
and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem 
this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. 
Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against 
temperance reform, invited men to “Join our Christmas 
goose club” — one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to 
subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded 
the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had 
come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christ- 
mas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did 
not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement 
checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her 


7 


98 


Howards End 


with amazement annually. How many of these vacil- 
lating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it 
was a divine event that drew them together? She 
realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She 
was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not 
believe that God had ever worked among us as a young 
artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, 
and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible 
signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, 
a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food 
cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in 
public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is 
private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; per- 
sonal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a 
personality beyond our daily vision. 

“No, I do like Christmas on the whole,” she an- 
nounced. “In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace 
and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year. ” 

“Is it? I am only used to country Christmases.” 

“We are usually in London, and play the game with 
vigour — carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, 
clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree 
and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. 
The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the 
tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the 
candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it 
looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder- 
closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be 
very small, and the presents don’t hang on it. No; the 
presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of 
crumpled brown paper. ” 

“You spoke of your ‘ next house, ’ Miss Schlegel. Then 
are you leaving Wickham Place?” 


Christmas Shopping 99 

“Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. 
We must.” 

“Have you been there long?” 

“All our lives.” 

“You will be very sorry to leave it. ” 

“I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My 
father — ” She broke off, for they had reached the 
stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and 
Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting 
cards. 

“If possible, something distinctive,” she sighed. At 
the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand , 
and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. 
“ My husband and our daughter are motoring.” “Bertha, 
too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!” Margaret, 
though not practical, could shine in such company as 
this. While they talked, she went through a volume of 
specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox’s 
inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted — so original, 
words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, 
and could ,'never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just 
as the assistant was booking the order, she said: “Do 
you know, I ’ll wait. On second thoughts, I ’ll wait. 
There ’s plenty of time still, is n’t there, and I shall be 
able to get Evie’s opinion. ” 

They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when 
they were in, she said, “ But couldn’t you get it renewed? ” 

“I beg your pardon?” asked Margaret. 

“The lease, I mean.” 

“Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all 
the time? How very kind of you ! ” 

“Surely something could be done.” 

“No; values have risen too enormously. They mean 


xoo 


Howards End 


to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours. ” 

“But how horrible!” 

“Landlords are horrible.” 

Then she said vehemently: “It is monstrous, Miss 
Schlegel ; it is n’t right. I had no idea that this was 
hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my 
heart. To be parted from your house, your father’s 
house — it ought n’t to be allowed. It is worse than 
dying. I would rather die than — Oh, poor girls! 
Can what they call civilisation be right, if people may n’t 
die in the room where they were born? My dear, I am 
so sorry ” 

Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox 
had been overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to 
hysteria. 

“Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It 
would have killed me.” 

“Howards End must be a very different house to ours. 
We are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive 
about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house. 
We shall easily find another. ” 

I “ So you think. ” 

“Again my lack of experience, I suppose!” said Mar- 
garet, easing away from the subject. “I can’t say any- 
thing when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish 
I could see myself as you see me — foreshortened into a 
backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming — won- 
derfully well read for my age, but incapable ” 

Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. “Come down 
with me to Howards End now,” she said, more vehem- 
ently than ever. ‘ ‘ I want you to see it. You have never 
seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do 
put things so wonderfully.” 


Christmas Shopping ioi 

Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the 
tired face of her companion. “Later on I should love 
it,” she continued, “but it’s hardly the weather for 
such an expedition, and we ought to start when we ’re 
fresh. Is n’t the house shut up, too?” 

She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be 
annoyed. 

“Might I come some other day?” 

Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. 
“Back to Wickham Place, please!” was her order to the 
coachman. Margaret had been snubbed. 

“A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help. ” 

“Not at all.” 

“It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind 
— the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your 
choice.” 

It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn 
Margaret became annoyed. 

“My husband and Evie will be back the day after 
to-morrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping 
to-day. I stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got through 
nothing, and now he writes that they must cut their tour 
short, the weather is so bad, and the police- traps have 
been so bad — nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such 
a careful chauffeur, and my husband feels it particularly 
hard that they should be treated like road-hogs.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, naturally he — he is n’t a road-hog. ” 

“He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He 
must expect to suffer with the lower animals. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. I ngrowing discomfort they 
drove homewards. The city seemed Satanic, the nar- 
rower streets oppressing like the galleries of a mine. 


102 


Howards End 


No harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, 
and the lighted windows of the shops were thronged 
with customers. It was rather a darkening of the spirit 
which fell back upon itself, to find a more grievous dark- 
ness within. Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times, 
but something throttled her. She felt petty and awk- 
ward, and her meditations on Christmas grew more 
cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but is there 
a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? The 
craving for excitement and for elaboration has ruined 
that blessing. Goodwill? Had she seen any example 
of it in the hordes of purchasers? Or in herself? She 
had failed to respond to this invitation merely because 
it was a little queer and imaginative — she, whose birth- 
right it was to nourish imagination! Better to have 
accepted, to have tired themselves a little by the jour- 
ney, than coldly to reply, “ Might I come some other 
day?” Her cynicism left her. There would be no 
other day. This shadowy woman would never ask her 
again. 

They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in 
after due civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, lonely 
figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass doors 
closed on it she had the sense of an imprisonment The 
beautiful head disappeared first, still buried in the 
muff; the long trailing skirt followed. A woman of un- 
definable rarity was going up heavenward, like a speci- 
men in a bottle. And into what a heaven — a vault as of 
hell, sooty black, from which soot descended! 

At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence 
insisted on talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but 
from babyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome 
and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of 


Christmas Shopping 103 

the day-school that he sometimes patronised. The ac- 
count was interesting, and she had often pressed him for 
it before, but she could not attend now, for her mind was 
focussed on the invisible. She discerned that Mrs. 
Wilcox, though a loving wife and mother, had only one 
passion in life — her house — and that the moment was 
solemn when she invited a friend to share this passion 
with her. To answer ‘‘another day” was to anwer as a 
fool. “Another day” will do for brick and mortar, but 
not for the Holy of Holies into which Howards End 
had been transfigured. Her own curiosity was slight. 
She had heard more than enough about it in the summer. 
The nine windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had no 
pleasant connections for her, and she would have pre- 
ferred to spend the afternoon at a concert. But im- 
agination triumphed. While her brother held forth she 
determined to go, at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs. 
Wilcox to go, too. When lunch was over she stepped 
over to the flats. 

Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night. 

Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried 
downstairs, and took a hansom to King’s Cross. She 
was convinced that the escapade was important, though 
it would have puzzled her to say why. There was ques- 
tion of imprisonment and escape, and though she did not 
know the time of the train, she strained her eyes for 
St. Pancras’s clock. 

Then the clock of King’s Cross swung into sight, a 
second moon in that infernal sky, and her cab drew up 
at the station. There was a train for Hilton in five 
minutes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation 
for a single. As she did so, a grave and happy voice 
saluted her and thanked her. 


104 


Howards End 


“I will come if I still may,” said Margaret, laughing 
nervously. 

“You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the 
morning that my house is most beautiful. You are 
coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow pro- 
perly except at sunrise. These fogs” — she pointed at 
the station roof — “never spread far. I dare say they are 
sitting in the sun in Hertfordshire, and you will never 
repent joining them.” 

“I shall never repent joining you.” 

“It is the same.” 

They began the walk up the long platform. Far at 
its end stood the train, breasting the darkness without. 
They never reached it. Before imagination could 
triumph, there were cries of “Mother! mother!” and a 
heavy-browed girl darted out of the cloak-room and 
seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm. 

“Evie!” she gasped — “Evie, my pet ” 

The girl called, “Father! I say! look who ’s 
here. ’ * 

“Evie, dearest girl, why aren’t you in Yorkshire?” 

“No — motor smash — changed plans — father’s 
coming.” 

“Why, Ruth!” cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. 
“What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you 
doing here, Ruth?” 

Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself. 

“Oh, Henry dear! — here ’s a lovely surprise — but let 
me introduce — but I think you know Miss Schlegel. ” 

“Oh yes,” he replied, not greatly interested. “But 
how ’s yourself, Ruth?” 

“Fit as a fiddle,” she answered gaily 

“So are we, and so was our car, which ran Ai as far as 


Christmas Shopping 105 

Ripon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a fool 
of a driver ” 

“Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another 
day.” 

“I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the police- 
man himself admits ” 

“Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course.” 

“ — But as we 've insured against third party risks, 

it won’t so much matter ” 

“ — Cart and car being practically at right angles ” 

The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret 
was left alone. No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox 
walked out of King’s k Cross between her husband and 
her daughter, listening to both of them. 


CHAPTER XI 
A Surprising Request 

The funeral was over. The carriages had rolled away 
through the soft mud, and only the poor remained. 
They approached to the newly-dug shaft and looked 
their last at the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the 
spadefuls of clay. It was their moment. Most of 
them were women from the dead woman’s district, to 
whom black garments had been served out by Mr. 
Wilcox’s orders. Pure curiosity had brought others. 
They thrilled with the excitement of a death, and of a 
rapid death, and stood in groups or moved between the 
graves, like drops of ink. The son of one of them, a 
wood-cutter, was perched high above their heads, pol- 
larding one of the churchyard elms. From where he sat 
he could see the village of Hilton, strung upon the North 
Road, with its accreting suburbs; the sunset beyond, 
scarlet and orange, winking at him beneath brows of 
grey; the church; the plantations; and behind him an 
unspoilt country of fields and farms. But he, too, was 
rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. He tried 
to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when 
he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leave 
his work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he 
106 


A Surprising Request 107 

had almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the 
rooks had cawed, and no wonder — it was as if rooks 
knew too. His mother claimed the prophetic power 
herself — she had seen a strange look about Mrs. Wilcox 
for some time. London had done the mischief, said 
others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother 
had been kind, too — a plainer person, but very kind. 
Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he was 
a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again 
and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of 
a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis 
or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though 
remote from life, it enhanced life’s values, and they 
witnessed it avidly. 

The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent 
of disapproval — they disliked Charles; it was not a 
moment to speak of such things, but they did not like 
Charles Wilcox — the grave-diggers finished their work 
and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun 
set over Hilton; the grey brows of the evening flushed 
a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering 
sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the 
lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led 
down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a 
little longer, poised above the silence and swaying 
rhythmically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw. 
With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no 
longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He 
stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of 
tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. “They 
didn’t ought to have coloured flowers at buryings,” 
he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped 
again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, 


io8 


Howards End 


wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it 
in his pocket. 

After him came silence absolute. The cottage that 
abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other 
house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the 
interment remained without an eye to witness it. 
Clouds drifted over it from the west ; or the church may 
have been a ship, high-pro wed, steering with all its com- 
pany towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew 
colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and 
sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, 
returning after a night of joy, reflected: “They lilies, 
they chrysants; it ’s a pity I did n’t take them all. ” , 

Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. 
Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. 
Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, 
breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came 
over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while 
he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he 
would lay down the morsel untasted. 

He remembered his wife’s even goodness during thirty 
years. Not anything in detail — not courtship or early 
raptures — but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to 
him a woman’s noblest quality. So many women are 
capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. 
Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, 
as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had 
always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! 
The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of 
God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and 
wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass 
in her field. Her idea of business — “Henry, why do 
people who have enough money try to get more money? ” 


A Surprising Request 109 

Her idea of politics — “I am sure that if the mothers of 
various nations could meet, there would be no more 
wars. ” Her idea of religion — ah, this had been a cloud, 
but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and 
he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now mem- 
bers of the Church of England. The rector’s sermons 
had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire 
for “a more inward light,” adding, “not so much for 
myself as for baby” (Charles). Inward light must 
have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later 
years. They brought up their three children without 
dispute. They had never disputed. 

She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if 
to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch 
of mystery that was all unlike her. “Why did n’t you 
tell me you knew of it?” he had moaned, and her faint 
voice had answered: “I did n’t want to, Henry — I might 
have been wrong — and every one hates illnesses.” He 
had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she 
had consulted during his absence from town. Was this 
altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. 
It was a fault on her part, and — tears rushed into his 
eyes — what a little fault! It was the only time she had 
deceived him in those thirty years. 

He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for 
Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no 
one’s eye. Ah yes — she had been a good woman — she 
had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. 
To him steadiness included all praise. 

He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appear- 
ance a steady man. His face was not as square as his 
son’s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in out- 
line, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were 


no 


Howards End 


curtained by a moustache. But there was no external 
hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and 
good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were 
the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, 
too, was like Charles’s. High and straight, brown and 
polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it 
had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from 
the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. 
He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. 

“The post ’s come, father,” said Evie awkwardly. 

“Thanks. Put it down.” 

“Has the breakfast been all right?” 

“Yes, thanks.” 

The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. 
She did not know what to do. 

“Charles says do you want the Times ?” 

“No, I ’ll read it later.” 

“Ring if you want anything, father, won’t you?” 

“I’ve all I want.” 

Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went 
back to the dining-room. 

“Father’s eaten nothing,” she announced, sitting 
down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. 

Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran 
quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said: “Look here, 
father, you must eat, you know;” and having paused 
for a reply that did not come, stole down again. “He ’s 
going to read his letters first, I think, ” he said evasively; 
“ I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards. ” 
Then he took up the Times , and for some time there was 
no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of 
knife on plate. 

Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions, 


A Surprising Request 1 1 1 

terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She 
was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A 
telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed 
of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word 
from her husband had plunged her into mourning. 
She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished 
that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died 
before the marriage, for then less would have been 
expected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous 
to ask for the butter, she remained almost motionless, 
thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was having 
his breakfast upstairs. 

At last Charles spoke. “They had no business 
to be pollarding those elms yesterday,” he said to his 
sister. 

“No, indeed.” 

“ I must make a note of that, ” he continued. “ I am 
surprised that the rector allowed it.” 

“Perhaps it may not be the rector’s affair.” 

“Whose else could it be?” 

“The lord of the manor.” 

“Impossible.” 

“Butter, Dolly?” 

“Thank you, Evie dear. Charles ” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“I didn’t know one could pollard elms. I thought 
one only pollarded willows. 

“Oh no, one can pollard elms.” 

“Then why oughtn’t the elms in the churchyard to 
be pollarded?” Charles frowned a little, and turned 
again to his sister. 

“Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley.” 

“Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.” * 


1 12 


Howards End 


“It’s no good his saying he is not responsible for 
those men. He is responsible. ” 

“Yes, rather.” 

Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, 
partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the 
mark — a healthy desire in its way — partly because they 
avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. 
It did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or 
it may be as Helen supposed: they realised its import- 
ance, but were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could 
one glance behind. They were not callous, and they 
left the breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their 
mother never had come in to breakfast. It was in the 
other rooms, and especially in the garden, that they felt 
her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage, he 
was reminded at every step of the woman who had 
loved him and whom he could never replace. What 
battles he had fought against her gentle conservatism! 
How she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally 
she had accepted them when made ! He and his father — 
what trouble they had had to get this very garage! 
With what difficulty had they persuaded her to yield them 
the paddock for it — the paddock that she loved more 
dearly than the garden itself! The vine — she had got 
her way about the vine. It still encumbered the south 
wall with its unproductive branches. And so with 
Evie, as she stood talking to the cook. Though she 
could take up her mother’s work inside the house, just 
as the man could take it up without, she felt that some- 
thing unique had fallen out of her life. Their grief, 
though less poignant than their father’s, grew from 
deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never. 

Charles would go back to the office. There was little 


A Surprising Request 113 

to do at Howards End. The contents of his mother’s 
will had long been known to them. There were no 
legacies, no annuities, none of the posthumous bustle 
with which some of the dead prolong their activities. 
Trusting her husband, she had left him everything with- 
out reserve. She was quite a poor woman — the house 
had been all her dowry, and the house would come to 
Charles in time. Her watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended 
to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery 
and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles 
thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to 
adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen 
in it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame. 
Cynicism — not the superficial cynicism that snarls and 
sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and 
tenderness — that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox’s will. 
She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the 
earth might freeze over her for ever. 

No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He 
could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go 
up to London and work — he felt too miserable hanging 
about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat 
while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie* 
He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which 
was being painted and decorated for him in one of the 
Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself 
soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch 
in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come 
down for the funeral, would go up by train. 

He found his father’s chauffeur in the garage,- said 
11 Morning” without looking at the man’s face, and 
bending over the car, continued: “Hullo! my new car’s 
been driven!” 


Howards End 


1 14 


“Has it, sir?” 

“Yes,” said Charles, getting rather red; “and who- 
ever ’s driven it hasn’t cleaned it properly, for there ’s 
mud on the axle. Take it off. ” 

The man went for the cloths without a word. He was 
a chauffeur as ugly as sin — not that this did him disser- 
vice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather 
rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with 
whom they had started. 

“Charles — ” His bride was tripping after him over 
the hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and 
elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof. 

“One minute, I ’m busy. Well, Crane, who ’s been 
driving it, do you suppose?” 

“ Don’t know, I ’m sure, sir. No one ’s driven it since 
I ’ve been back, but, of course, there ’s the fortnight 
I ’ve been away with the other car in Yorkshire. ” 

The mud came off easily. 

“Charles, your father’s down. Something’s hap- 
pened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, 
Charles!” 

“Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the 
garage while you were away, Crane?” 

“The gardener, sir.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a 
motor?” 

“No, sir; no one ’s had the motor out, sir.” 

• “Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?” 

“I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in 
Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir.” 

Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a 
fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would 
have reported him to his father. But it was not a 


A Surprising Request 115 

morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be 
round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the 
while been pouring out some incoherent story about a 
letter and a Miss Schlegel. 

“Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? 
What does she want?” 

When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what 
they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. 
And the question in this case was correct, for his wife 
replied, “She wants Howards End.” 

“Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to 
put on the Stepney wheel.” 

“No, sir.” 

f “Now, mind you don’t forget, for I — Come, little 
woman.” When they were out of the chauffeur’s sight 
he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against 
him. All his affection and half his attention — it was 
what he granted her throughout their happy married 
life. 

“But you have n’t listened, Charles ” 

“What ’s wrong?” 

“I keep on telling you — Howards End. Miss Schle- 
gel ’s got it.” 

“Got what?” said Charles, unclasping her. “What 
the dickens are you talking about?” 

“Now, Charles, you promised not so say those 
naughty ” 

“Look here, I’m in no mood for foolery. It’s no 
morning for it either.” 

“I tell you — I keep on telling you — Miss Schlegel — 
she ’s got it — your mother’s left it to her— and you ’ve 
all got to move out!” 

“ Howards End ?” 


Ii6 


Howards End 


11 Howards End!” she screamed, mimicking him, and 
as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. 

“ Dolly, go back at once ! My father ’s much annoyed 
with you. Charles” — she hit herself wildly — “come in 
at once to father. He ’s had a letter that ’s too awful. ” 

Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped 
heavily across the gravel path. There the house was — 
the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, 
“Schlegels again!” and as if to complete chaos, Dolly 
said, “Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has 
written instead of her.” 

“Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer 
inert. “Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?” 

“Oh, Mr. Wilcox ” 

“I told you not to go out to the garage. I ’ve heard 
you all shouting in the garden. I won’t have it. Come 
in.” 

He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. 

“Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can’t 
discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. 
Here, Charles, here ; read these. See what you make. ” 

Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed 
the procession. The first was a covering note from the 
matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral 
should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed — 
it was from his mother herself. She had written: “To 
my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) 
to have Howards End.” 

“I suppose we ’re going to have a talk about this?” he 
remarked, ominously calm. 

1 ‘ Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly ’ ’ 

“Well, let ’s sit down.” 

“Come, Evie, don’t waste time, sit-down.” 


A Surprising Request 117 

In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The 
events of yesterday — indeed, of this morning — suddenly 
receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely 
to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. 
They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them 
further, read the enclosure out loud: “A note in my 
mother’s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my 
father, sealed. Inside: ‘I should like Miss Schlegel 
(Margaret) to have Howards End.’ No date, no signa- 
ture. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing 
home. Now, the question is ” 

Dolly interrupted him. “But I say that note isn’t 
legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, 
surely.” 

Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps 
appeared in front of either ear — a symptom that she 
had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she 
might see the note. Charles looked at his father for 
permission, who said abstractedly, “Give it her.” She 
seized it, and at once exclaimed: “Why, it’s only in 
pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts.” 

“We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly,” said 
Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. “We 
are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in 
tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, 
my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it 
will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not 
understand. ” 

Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then 
repeated: “The question is — ” He had cleared a 
space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, 
so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. “The 
question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fort- 


1 18 Howards End 

night we were all away, whether she unduly — ” He 
stopped. 

“I don’t think that,” said his father, whose nature 
was nobler than his son’s. 

“ Don’t think what? ” 

“That she would have — that it is a case of undue 
influence. No, to my mind the question is the — the 
invalid’s condition at the time she wrote.” 

“My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I 
don’t admit it is my mother’s writing.” 

“Why, you just said it was!” cried Dolly. 

“Never mind if I did,” he blazed out; “and hold your 
tongue.” 

The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her 
handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one 
noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. 
The two men were gradually assuming the manner of 
the committee-room. They were both at their best when 
serving on committees. They did not make the mistake 
of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of 
them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item 
before them now, and on it they turned their well- 
trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted 
the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next 
point. It is the best — perhaps the only — way of dodging 
emotion. They were the average human article, and 
had they considered the note as a whole it would have 
driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by 
item, the emotional content was minimised, and all 
went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals 
blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance 
that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the 
sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, 


A Surprising Request 119 

extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across 
the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. 
Evie’s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a 
dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that sur- 
rounded him. He was discredited, but the black- 
birds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, 
for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. 
Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident 
note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the . discussion 
moved towards its close. 

To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment 
when the commentator should step forward. Ought 
the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? 
I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not 
legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell 
of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead 
woman’s intentions in the past, contrary to her very 
nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. 
To them Howards End was a house : they could not know 
that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a 
spiritual heir. And — pushing one step farther in these 
mists — may they not have decided even better than they 
supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the 
spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? 
A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it — 
can passion for such things be transmitted where there 
js no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be 
blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not 
even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting 
that after due debate they should tear the note up and 
throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical 
moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives 
to look deeper may acquit them — almost. For one 


120 


Howards End 


hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. 
The woman who had died did say to them, “Do this,” 
and they answered, “We will not.” 

The incident made a most painful impression on them. 
Grief mounted into the brain and worked there dis- 
quietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: “She was 
a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence she neg- 
lected her health and died.” To-day they thought: 
“She was not as true, as dear, as we supposed.” The 
desire for a more inward light had found expression at 
last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that 
they could say was “Treachery.” Mrs. Wilcox had 
been treacherous to the family, to the laws of property, 
to her own written word. How did she expect Howards 
End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her hus- 
band, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to 
her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a 
life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there 
to be no compensation for the garage and other improve- 
ments that they had made under the assumption that all 
would be theirs some day? Treacherous! treacherous 
and absurd! When we think the dead both treacherous 
and absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling our- 
selves to their departure. That note, scribbled in pencil, 
sent through the matron, was unbusinesslike as well as 
cruel, and decreased at once the value of the woman who 
had written it. 

“Ah, well!” said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. 
“I should n't have thought it possible.” 

“Mother couldn't have meant it,” said Evie, still 
frowning. 

“No, my girl, of course not.” 

“Mother believed so in ancestors too — it isn’t like 


A Surprising Request 121 

her to leave anything to an outsider, who ’d never 
appreciate. ” 

“The whole thing is unlike her,” he announced. “If 
Miss Schlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a house, 
I could understand it a little. But she has a house of her 
own. Why should she want another? She wouldn’t 
have any use for Howards End. ” 

“That time may prove,” murmured Charles. 

“How?” asked his sister. 

“Presumably she knows — mother will have told her. 
She got twice or three times into the nursing home. 
Presumably she is awaiting developments. ” 

“What a horrid woman!” And Dolly, who had 
recovered, cried, “Why, she may be coming down to 
turn us out now!” 

Charles put her right. “I wish she would,” he said 
ominously. “I could then deal with her. ” 

“So could I, ” echoed his father, who was feeling rather 
in the cold. Charles had been kind in undertaking the 
funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat his 
breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little dicta- 
torial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily. 
“ I could deal with her, if she comes, but she won’t come. 
You ’re all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel.” 

“That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though.” 

“I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I 
said at the time, and besides, it is quite apart from this 
business. Margaret Schlegel has been officious and 
tiresome during this terrible week, and we have all 
suffered under her, but upon my soul she ’s honest. 
She ’s not in collusion with the matron. I ’m absolutely 
certain of it. Nor was she with the doctor, I ’m equally 
certain of that. She did not hide anything from us, for 


122 


Howards End 


up to that very afternoon she was as ignorant as we are. 
She, like ourselves, was a dupe — ” He stopped for a 
moment. “You see, Charles, in her terrible pain your 
mother put us all in false positions. Paul would not 
have left England, you would not have gone to Italy, nor 
Evie and I into Yorkshire, if only we had known. Well, 
Miss Schlegel’s position has been equally false. Take 
all in all, she has not come out of it badly. ” 

Evie said: “But those chrysanthemums ” 

“Or coming down to the funeral at all — ” echoed 
Dolly. 

“Why should n’t she come down? She had the right 
to, and she stood far back among the Hilton women. 
The flowers — certainly we should not have sent such 
flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to her, 
Evie, and for all you know they may be the custom in 
Germany.” 

“Oh, I forget she isn’t really English,” cried Evie. 
“That would explain a lot.” 

“She ’s a cosmopolitan,” said Charles, looking at his 
watch. “I admit I ’m rather down on cosmopolitans. 
My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a Ger- 
man cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that ’s about all, 
is n’t it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A 
bicycle will do. And, by the way, I wish you ’d speak 
to Crane some time. I ’m certain he ’s had my new 
car out.” 

t “Has he done it any harm?” 

“No.” 

“In that case I shall let it pass. It ’s not worth while 
having a row. ” 

Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they 
always parted with an increased regard for one another, 


123 


A Surprising Request 

and each desired no doughtier comrade when it was 
necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions So the 
sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first 
stopped one another’s ears with wool. 


CHAPTER XII 

The Situation Changes 

Charles need not have been anxious. Miss Schlegel 
had never heard of his mother’s strange request. She 
was to hear of it in after years, when she had built up 
her life differently, and it was to fit into position as the 
headstone of the corner. Her mind was bent on other 
questions now, and by her also it would have been 
rejected as the fantasy of an invalid. 

She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second 
time. Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had 
flowed into her life and ebbed out of it for ever. The 
ripple had left no traces behind ; the wave had strewn 
at her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious 
seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of the sea that 
tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing of 
this last tremendous tide. Her friend had vanished in 
agony, but not, she believed, in degradation. Her with- 
drawal had hinted at other things besides disease and pain. 
Some leave our life with tears, others with an insane 
frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, which 
only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept proportion. 
She had told a little of her grim secret to her friends, 
but not too much; she had shut up her heart — almost, 
124 


125 


The Situation Changes 

but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we 
ought to die — neither as victim nor as fanatic, but as the 
seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the deep that 
he is entering, and the shore that he must leave. 

The last word — whatever it would be — had certainly 
not been said in Hilton churchyard. She had not died 
there. /A funeral is not death, any more than baptism 
is birtn or marriage union. All three are the clumsy 
devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which 
Society would register the quick motions of man. In 
Margaret’s eyes Mrs. Wilcox had escaped registration. 
She had gone out of life vividly, her own way, and no 
dust was so truly dust as the contents of that heavy 
coffin, lowered with ceremonial until it rested on the 
dust of the earth, no flowers so utterly wasted as the 
chrysanthemums that the frost must have withered 
before morning. Margaret had once said she “loved 
superstition. ” It was not true. Few women had tried 
more earnestly to pierce the accretions in which body 
and soul are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wilcox 
had helped her in her work. She saw a little more 
clearly than hitherto what a human being is, and to 
what he may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed. 
Perhaps the last word would be hope — hope even on 
this side of the grave. 

Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the sur- 
vivors. In spite of her Christmas duties, in spite of 
her brother, the Wilcoxes continued to play a consider- 
able part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of 
them in the final week. They were not “her sort,” 
they were often suspicious and stupid, and deficient 
where she excelled; but collision with them stimulated 
her, and she felt an interest that verged into liking, even 


126 


Howards End 


for Charles. She desired to protect them, and often 
felt that they could protect her, excelling where she 
was deficient. Once past the rocks of emotion, they 
knew so well what to do, whom to send for; their hands 
were on all the ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness 
and she valued grit enormously. They led a life that 
she could not attain to — the outer life of “telegrams and 
anger,” which had detonated when Helen and Paul 
had touched in June, and had detonated again the other 
week. To Margaret this life was to remain a real force. 
She could not despise it, as Helen and Tibby affected 
to do. It fostered such virtues as neatness, decision, 
and obedience, virtues of the second rank, no doubt, 
but they have formed our civilisation. They form 
character, too; Margaret could not doubt it; they keep 
the soul from becoming sloppy. How dare Schlegels 
despise Wilcoxes, when it takes all sorts to make a 
world? 

“Don’t brood too much,” she wrote to Helen, “on 
the superiority of the unseen to the seen. It ’s true, 
but to brood on it is mediaeval. Our business is not 
to contrast the two, but to reconcile them.” 

Helen replied that she had no intention of brood- 
ing on such a dull subject. What did her sister take 
her for? The weather was magnificent. She and the 
Mosebachs had gone tobogganing on the only hill that 
Pomerania boasted. It was fun, but over-crowded, for the 
rest of Pomerania had gone there too. Helen loved the 
country, and her letter glowed with physical exercise and 
poetry. She spoke of the scenery, quiet, yet august; 
of the snow-clad fields, with their scampering herds of 
deer; of the river and its quaint entrance into the Baltic 
Sea; of the Oderberge, only three hundred feet high, 


The Situation Changes 


1 27 


from which one slid all too quickly back into the Pom- 
eranian plains, and yet these Oderberge were real 
mountains, with pine-forests, streams, and views com- 
plete. “It isn’t size that counts so much as the way 
things are arranged.” In another paragraph she re- 
ferred to Mrs. Wilcox sympathetically, but the news had 
not bitten into her. She had not realised the accessories 
of death, which are in a sense more memorable than 
death itself. The atmosphere of precautions and re- 
criminations, and in the midst a human body growing 
more vivid because it was in pain; the end of that body 
in Hilton churchyard; the survival of something that 
suggested hope, vivid in its turn against life’s workaday 
cheerfulness; — all these were lost to Helen, who only 
felt that a pleasant lady could now be pleasant no longer. 
She returned to Wickham Place full of her own affairs — 
she had had another proposal — and Margaret, after a 
moment’s hesitation, was content that this should be 
so. 

The proposal had not been a serious matter. It was 
the work of Fraulein Mosebach, who had conceived the 
large and patriotic notion of winning back her cousins 
to the Fatherland by matrimony. England had played 
Paul Wilcox, and lost; Germany played Herr Forst- 
meister some one — Helen could not remember his name. 
Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and, standing on the 
summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his house 
to Helen, or rather, had pointed out the wedge of pines 
in which it lay. She had exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely! 
That ’s the place for me!” and in the evening Frieda 
appeared in her bedroom. “I have a message, dear 
Helen,” etc., and so she had, but had been very nice 
when Helen laughed; quite understood — a forest too 


128 


Howards End 


solitary and damp — quite agreed, but Herr Forstmeister 
believed he had assurance to the contrary. Germany 
had lost, but with good-humour; holding the manhood 
of the world, she felt bound to win. “And there will 
even be some one for Tibby, ” concluded Helen. “ There 
now, Tibby, think of that; Frieda is saving up a little 
girl for you, in pig-tails and white worsted stockings, 
but the feet of the stockings are pink as if the little 
girl had trodden in strawberries. I ’ve talked too 
much. My head aches. Now you talk. ” 

Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own 
affairs, for he had just been up to try for a scholarship 
at Oxford. The men were down, and the candidates 
had been housed in various colleges, and had dined in 
hall. Tibby was sensitive to beauty, the experience 
was new, and he gave a description of his visit that was 
almost glowing. The august and mellow University, 
soaked with the richness of the western counties that 
it has served for a thousand years, appealed at once 
to the boy’s taste ; it was the kind of thing he could under- 
stand, and he understood it all the better because it 
was empty. Oxford is — Oxford; not a mere receptacle 
for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its in- 
mates to love it rather than to love one another; such 
at all events was to be its effect on Tibby. His sisters 
sent him there that he might make friends, for they 
knew that his education had been cranky, and had 
severed him from other boys and men. He made no 
friends. His Oxford remained Oxford empty, and he 
took into life with him, not the memory of a radiance, 
but the memory of a colour scheme. 

It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister 
talking. They did not get on overwell as a rule. For 


129 


The Situation Changes 

a few moments she listened to them, feeling elderly 
and benign. Then something occurred to her, and 
she interrupted: 

“Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that 
sad business?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I have had a correspondence with her son. He was 
winding up the estate, and wrote to ask me whether 
his mother had wanted me to have anything. I thought 
it good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said 
that she had once spoken of giving me a Christmas 
present, but we both forgot about it afterwards.” 

“ I hope Charles took the hint. ” 

“Yes — that is to say, her husband wrote later on, 
and thanked me for being a little kind to her, and actually 
gave me her silver vinaigrette. Don’t you think that 
is extraordinarily generous? It has made me like him 
very much. He hopes that this will not be the end of 
our acquaintance, but that you and I will go and stop 
with Evie some time in the future. I like Mr. Wilcox. 
He is taking up his work — rubber — it is a big business. 
I gather he is launching out rather. Charles is in it, 
too. Charles is married — a pretty little creature, but 
she does n’t seem wise. They took on the flat, but 
now they have gone off to a house of their own.” 

Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account of 
Stettin. How quickly a situation changes! In June 
she had been in a crisis; even in November she could 
blush and be unnatural; now it was January, and the 
whole affair lay forgotten. Looking back on the past 
six months, Margaret realised the chaotic nature of 
our daily life, and its difference from the orderly sequence 
that has been fabricated by historians. Actual life 

9 


130 


Howards End 


is full of false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. 
With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that 
never comes. The most successful career must show 
a waste of strength that might have removed mountains, 
and the most unsuccessful is not that of the man who 
is taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and 
is never taken. On a tragedy of that kind our national 
morality is duly silent. It assumes that preparation 
against danger is in itself a good, and that men, like 
nations, are the better for staggering through life fully 
armed. The tragedy of preparedness has scarcely been 
handled, save by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous, 
but not in the way morality would have us believe. 
It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not 
a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, 
and its essence is romantic beauty. 

Margaret hoped that for the future she would be less 
cautious, not more cautious, than she had been in the 
past. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A Mysterious Caller 

Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household 
continued to lead its life of cultured, but not ignoble, 
ease, still swimming gracefully on the grey tides of 
London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money 
had been spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, 
and the city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose and 
fell in a continual flux, while her shallows washed more 
widely against the hills of Surrey and over the fields 
of Hertfordshire. This famous building had arisen, 
that was doomed. To-day Whitehall had been trans- 
formed ; it would be the turn of Regent Street to-morrow. 
And month by month the roads smelt more strongly 
of petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human 
beings heard each other speak with greater difficulty, 
breathed less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Nature 
withdrew; the leaves were falling by midsummer; the 
sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity. 

To speak against London is no longer fashionable. 
The Earth as an artistic cult has had its day, and the 
literature of the near future will probably ignore the 
country and seek inspiration from the town. One can 
understand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental 
131 


132 


Howards End 


forces, the public has heard a little too much — they 
seem Victorian, while London is Georgian — and those 
who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long 
ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly 
London fascinates. One visualises it as a tract of 
quivering grey, intelligent without purpose, and excitable 
without love; as a spirit that has altered before it can 
be chronicled ; as a heart that certainly beats, but with 
no pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything; 
Nature, with all her cruelty, comes nearer to us than 
do these crowds of men. A friend explains himself; 
the earth is explicable — from her we came, and we 
must return to her. But who can explain Westminster 
Bridge Road or Liverpool Street in the morning — the 
city inhaling — or the same thoroughfares in the evening 
— the city exhaling her exhausted air ? We reach in 
desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the 
voids of the universe are ransacked to justify the monster, 
and stamped with a human face. London is religion’s 
opportunity — not the decorous religion of theologians, 
but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous 
flow would be tolerable if a man of our own sort — not 
any one pompous or tearful — were caring for us up in 
the sky. 

The Londoner seldom understands his city until it 
sweeps him, too, away from his moorings, and Margaret’s 
eyes were not opened until the lease of Wickham Place 
expired. She had always known that it must expire, 
but the knowledge only became vivid about nine months 
before the event. Then the house was suddenly ringed 
with pathos. It had seen so much happiness. Why had 
it to be swept away? In the streets of the city she 
noted for the first time the architecture of hurry, and 


A Mysterious Caller 133 

heard the language of hurry on the mouths of its in- 
habitants — clipped words, formless sentences, potted 
expressions of approval or disgust. Month by month 
things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The 
population still rose, but what was the quality of the 
men born? The particular millionaire who owned the 
freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to erect Baby- 
lonian flats upon it — what right had he to stir so large 
a portion of the quivering jelly? He was not a fool — 
she had heard him expose Socialism — but true insight 
began just where his intelligence ended, and one gathered 
that this was the case with most millionaires. What 
right had such men — But Margaret checked herself. 
That way lies madness. Thank goodness, she, too, had 
some money, and could purchase a new home. 

Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down 
for the Easter vacation, and Margaret took the oppor- 
tunity of having a serious talk with him. Did he at all 
know where he wanted to live? Tibby did n’t know 
that he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted 
to do? He was equally uncertain, but when pressed 
remarked that he should prefer to be quite free of any 
profession. Margaret was not shocked, but went on 
sewing for a few minutes before she replied: 

“I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me 
as particularly happy. ” 

“Ye-es,” said Tibby, and then held his mouth open 
in a curious quiver, as if he, too, had thought of Mr. 
Vyse, had seen round, through, over, and beyond Mr. 
Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally 
dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the 
subject under discussion. That bleat of Tibby ’s infuri- 
ated Helen. But Helen was now down in the dining- 


134 


Howards End 


room preparing a speech about political economy. At 
times her voice could be heard declaiming through 
the floor. 

“But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don’t 
you think? Then there ’s Guy. That was a pitiful 
business. Besides” — shifting to the general — “every 
one is the better for some regular work.” 

Groans. 

“I shall stick to it,” she continued, smiling. “I am 
not saying it to educate you; it is what I really think. 
I believe that in the last century men have developed 
the desire for work, and they must not starve it. It ’s 
a new desire. It goes with a great deal that ’s bad, but 
in itself it ’s good, and I hope that for women, too, ‘ not 
to work’ will soon become as shocking as ‘not to be 
married’ was a hundred years ago. ” 

“I have no experience of this profound desire to which 
you allude,” enunciated Tibby. 

“Then we ’ll leave the subject till you do. I ’m not 
going to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do 
think over the lives of the men you like most, and see 
how they ’ve arranged them.” 

“I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most,” said Tibby faintly, 
and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a 
horizontal line from knees to throat. 

“And don’t think I’m not serious because I don’t 
use the traditional arguments — making money, a sphere 
awaiting you, and so on — all of which are, for various 
reasons, cant.” She sewed on. “I ’m only your sister. 
I have n’t any authority over you, and I don’t want to 
have any. Just to put before you what I think the 
truth. You see” — she shook off the pince-nez to 
which she had recently taken — “in a few years we shall 


A Mysterious Caller 135 

be the same age practically, and I shall want you to 
help me. Men are so much nicer than women.” 

“Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not 
marry?” 

“I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the 
chance. ” 

“ Has no body arst you?” 

“Only ninnies.” 

“Do people ask Helen?” 

“Plentifully.” 

“ Tell me about them. ” 

“No.” 

“Tell me about your ninnies, then.” 

“They were men who had nothing better to do,” 
said his sister, feeling that she was entitled to score this 
point. “So take warning; you must work, or else you 
must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, 
work if you ’d save your soul and your body. It is 
honestly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, 
look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their defects of temper 
and understanding, such men give me more pleasure 
than many who are better equipped, and I think it is 
because they have worked regularly and honestly.” 

“Spare me the Wilcoxes, ” he moaned. 

“I shall not. They are the right sort.” 

“Oh, goodness me, Meg!” he protested, suddenly 
sitting up, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, 
had a genuine personality. 

“Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can 
imagine.” 

“No, no — oh, no!” 

“I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once 
classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill from Nigeria. 


136 Howards End 

He ’s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me — out 
to his duty.” 

“Duty” always elicited a groan. 

“He doesn’t want the money, it is work he wants, 
though it is beastly work — dull country, dishonest 
natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A 
nation that can produce men of that sort may well be 
proud. No wonder England has become an Empire.” 

“Empire!” 

“I can’t bother over results,” said Margaret, a little 
sadly. “They are too difficult for me. I can only 
look at the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I 
can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London 
bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are 
labouring to make London ” 

“What it is,” he sneered. 

“What it is, worse luck. I want activity without 
civilisation. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is 
what we shall find in heaven. ” 

“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilisation without 
activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the 
other place.” 

“You need n’t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, 
if you want that. You can find it at Oxford.” 

“Stupid ” 

“If I’m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. 
I ’ll even live in Oxford if you like — North Oxford. I ’ll 
live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and 
Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and 
Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There 
on no account.” 

“London, then.” 

“I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from 


137 


A Mysterious Caller 

London. However, there ’s no reason we should n’t 
have a house in the country and also a flat in town, 
provided we all stick together and contribute. Though 
of course — Oh, how one does maunder on, and to 
think, to think of the people who are really poor. How 

do they live? Not to move about the world would kill 
» 

me. 

As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen 
burst in in a state of extreme excitement. 

“Oh, my dears, what do you think? You ’ll never 
guess. A woman’s been here asking me for her husband. 
Her what ? 11 (Helen was fond of supplying her own 
surprise.) “Yes, for her husband, and it really is so.” 

“ Not anything to do with Bracknell?” cried Margaret, 
who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name 
to clean the knives and boots. 

“I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was 
Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It ’s no one we know. I 
said, ‘Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, 
hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake 
out the antimacassars. Husband? husband?’ Oh, and 
she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a 
chandelier. ” 

“Now, Helen, what did really happen?” 

“What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. 
Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female 
straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we 
began — very civilly. ‘I want my husband, what I 
have reason to believe is here.’ No — how unjust one is. 
She said ‘whom,’ not ‘what.’ She got it perfectly. 
So I said, ‘Name, please?’ and she said, ‘Lan, Miss,’ 
and there we were. ” 

“Lan?” 


138 Howards End 

“Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. 
Lanoline. ” 

“But what an extraordinary ” 

“I said, ‘My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave 
misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty 
is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, 
never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine. ” 

“I hope you were pleased,” said Tibby. 

“Of course,” Helen squeaked. “A perfectly de- 
lightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline ’s a dear — she 
asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She 
mislaid him Saturday afternoon — and for a long time 
suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this 
morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast did n’t 
seem the same — no, no more did lunch, and so she 
strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most 
likely place for the missing article. ” 

“But how on earth ” 

“Don’t begin how on earthing. ‘I know what I 
know,’ she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with ex- 
treme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. 
Some knew what others knew, and others did n’t, and 
if they did n’t, then others again had better be careful. 
Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a 
silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We 
chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I won- 
dered where hers was too, and advised her to go to the 
police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lano- 
line ’s a notty, notty man, and has n’t no business to 
go on the lardy-da. But I think she suspected me up 
to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this. 
Now, Meg, remember — bags I.” 

“Bag it by all means,” murmured Margaret, putting 


139 


A Mysterious Caller 

down her work. “I’m not sure that this is so funny, 
Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking some- 
where, doesn’t it?” 

“I don’t think so — she doesn’t really mind. The 
admirable creature is n’t capable of tragedy.” 

“Her husband may be, though,” said Margaret, 
moving to the window. 

“Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could 
have married Mrs. Lanoline.” 

“Was she pretty?” 

“Her figure may have been good once. ” 

The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate 
curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. 
Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham 
Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that 
her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and 
squalor, into nearer contact with such episodes as these. 

“Tibby and I have again been wondering where we ’ll 
live next September,” she said at last. 

“Tibby had better first wonder what he ’ll do,” re- 
torted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with 
acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went 
on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, 
too, for they were going out to a discussion society on 
the morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. 
Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, 
a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred 
had both decayed. 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Mystery Explained 

The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. 
Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner, 
a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment 
of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus 
much from his card. He had come " about the lady 
yesterday.” Thus much from Annie, who had shown 
him into the dining-room. 

"Cheers, children!” cried Helen. "It ’s Mrs. 
Lanoline.” 

Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, 
to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young 
man, colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful 
eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common 
in London, and that haunt some streets of the city like 
accusing presences. One guessed him as the third genera- 
tion, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom civili- 
sation had sucked into the town; as one of the thousands 
who have lost the life of the body and failed to reach 
the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in 
him, more than a hint of primitive good looks, and 
Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight, 
and the chest that might have broadened, wondered 
whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for 
140 


The Mystery Explained 141 

a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked 
in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had 
doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide and 
so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural 
and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who 
are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type 
very well — the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, 
the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew 
the very tones in which he would address her. She was 
only unprepared for an example of her own visiting-card. 

“You wouldn’t remember giving me this, Miss 
Schlegel?” said he, uneasily familiar. 

“No; I can’t say I do.” 

“Well, that was how it happened, you see.” 

“Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute 
I don’t remember.” 

“It was a concert at the Queen’s Hall. I think you 
will recollect,” he added pretentiously, “when I tell 
you that it included a performance of the Fifth 
Symphony of Beethoven.” 

“We hear the Fifth practically every time it ’s done, 
so I ’m not sure — do you remember, Helen?” 

“Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the 
balustrade?” 

He thought not. 

“Then I don’t remember. That ’s the only Beethoven 
I ever remember specially.” 

“And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, 
inadvertently of course.” 

“Likely enough,” Helen laughed, “for I steal um- 
brellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you 
get it back?” 

“Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel.” < 


142 Howards End 

“ The mistake arose out of my card, did it? ” interposed 
Margaret. 

“Yes, the mistake arose — it was a mistake.” 

“The lady who called here yesterday thought that 
you were calling too, and that she could find you?” 
she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he 
had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give 
one. 

“That ’s so, calling too — a mistake.” 

“Then why — ?” began Helen, but Margaret laid a 
hand on her arm. 

“I said to my wife,” he continued more rapidly — 
“I said to Mrs. Bast, ‘I have to pay a call on some 
friends,’ and Mrs. Bast said to me, ‘Do go.’ While I 
was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, 
and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and 
so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and 
hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inad- 
vertently caused you.” 

“No inconvenience,” said Helen; “but I still don’t 
understand. ” 

An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He ex- 
plained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen 
did n’t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty 
of youth. Neglecting her sister’s pressure, she said, 
“I still don’t understand. When did you say you paid 
this call?” 

“ Call? What call? ” said he, staring as if her question 
had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in 
mid-stream. 

“This afternoon call.” 

“In the afternoon, of course!” he replied, and looked 
at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibbie was 


The Mystery Explained 143 

unsympathetic, and said, “Saturday afternoon or Sunday 
afternoon?” 

“S— Saturday.” 

“Really!” said Helen; “and you were still calling 
on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit.” 

“I don’t call that fair,” said Mr. Bast, going scarlet 
and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. “I know 
what you mean, and it is n’t so. ” 

“Oh, don’t let us mind,” said Margaret, distressed 
again by odours from the abyss. 

“It was something else,” he asserted, his elaborate 
manner breaking down. “ I was somewhere else to what 
you think, so there!” 

“It was good of you to come and explain,” she said. 
“The rest is naturally no concern of ours.” 

“Yes, but I want — I wanted — have you ever read 
The Ordeal of Richard Fever el? ” 

Margaret nodded. 

“It ’s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the 
earth, don’t you see, like Richard does in the end. 
Or have you ever read Stevenson’s Prince Otto?” 

Helen and Tibby groaned gently. 

“That’s another beautiful book. You get back to 
the earth in that. I wanted — ” He mouthed affect- 
edly. Then through the mists of his culture came a 
hard fact, hard as a pebble. “ I walked all the Satur- 
day night, ” said Leonard. “ I walked. ” A thrill of ap- 
proval ran through the sisters. But culture closed in 
again. He asked whether they had ever read E. V. 
Lucas’s Open Road.” 

Said Helen, “No doubt it ’s another beautiful book, 
but I ’d rather hear about your road.” 

“Oh, I walked.” 


144 


Howards End 


“How far?” 

“I don’t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to 
see my watch.” 

“Were you walking alone, may I ask?” 

“Yes,” he said, straightening himself; “but we’d 
been talking it over at the office. There ’s been a lot 
of talk at the office lately about these things. The 
fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I 
looked it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors 
everything gets so mixed ” 

“Don’t talk to me about the Pole Star,” interrupted 
Helen, who was becoming interested. “I know its 
little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round 
after it.” 

“Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, 
then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy.” 

Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped 
from the room. He knew that this fellow would never 
attain to poetry, and did not want to hear him trying. 
Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother in- 
fluenced them more than they knew; in his absence 
they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. 

“Where did you start from?” cried Margaret. “Do 
tell us more.” 

“I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came 
out of the office I said to myself, ‘I must have a walk 
once in a way. If I don’t take this walk now, I shall 
never take it.’ I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, 
and then ” 

“But not good country there, is it?” 

“ It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, 
and being out was the great thing. I did get into 
woods, too, presently.” 


145 


The Mystery Explained 

“Yes, go on,” said Helen. 

“You ’ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when 
it ’s dark.” 

“Did you actually go off the roads?” 

“Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but 
the worst of it is that it ’s more difficult to find one's 
way.” 

“Mr. Bast, you’re a born adventurer,” laughed 
Margaret. “No professional athlete would have at- 
tempted what you ’ve done. It ’s a wonder your walk 
did n’t end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife 
say?” 

“Professional athletes never move without lanterns 
and compasses,” said Helen. “Besides, they can’t 
walk. It tires them. Go on.” 

“I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how 
in Virginibus ” 

“Yes, but the wood. This ’ere wood. How did you 
get out of it?” 

“I managed one wood, and found a road the other 
side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it 
was those North Downs, for the road went off into 
grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful, 
with gorse bushes. I did wish I ’d never come, but 
suddenly it got light — just while I seemed going under 
one tree. Then I found a road down to a station, and 
took the first train I could back to London.” 

“But was the dawn wonderful?” asked Helen. 

With unforgettable sincerity he replied, “No.” The 
word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down 
toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his 
talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the “love of 
the earth ” and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these 


IO 


146 


Howards End 


women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow, 
an exultation, that he had seldom known. 

“The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to 
mention ” 

“Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know.” 

“ — and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it, 
and so cold too. I ’m glad I did it, and yet at the time 
it bored me more than I can say. And besides — you 
can believe me or not as you choose — I was very hungry. 
That dinner at Wimbledon — I meant it to last me all 
night like other dinners. I never thought that walking 
would make such a difference. Why, when you ’re 
walking you want, as it were, a breakfast and luncheon 
and tea during the night as well, and I ’d nothing but a 
packet of Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking 
back, it was n’t what you may call enjoyment. It was 
more a case of sticking to it. I did stick. I — I was 
determined. Oh, hang it all! what ’s the good — I mean, 
the good of living in a room for ever? There one goes 
on day after day, same old game, same up and down 
to town, until you forget there is any other game. You 
ought to see once in a way what ’s going on outside, if 
it ’s only nothing particular after all.” 

“I should just think you ought,” said Helen, sitting 
on the edge of the table. 

The sound of a lady’s voice recalled him from sincerity, 
and he said: “Curious it should all come about from 
reading something of Richard Jefferies.” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you ’re wrong there. It 
didn’t. It came from something far greater.” 

But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent 
after Jefferies — Borrow, Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. 
brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp 


147 


The Mystery Explained 

of books. No disrespect to these great names. The 
fault is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for 
sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we 
mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard 
had reached the destination. He had visited the county 
of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its 
cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve 
hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go 
and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind 
dwelt something that was greater than Jefferies’ books 
— the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and 
his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was 
part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow 
Stonehenge. 

“Then you don’t think I was foolish?” he asked, 
becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for 
whom Nature intended him. 

“Heavens, no!” replied Margaret. 

“Heaven help us if we do!” replied Helen. 

“I’m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would 
never understand — not if I explained for days.” 

“No, it was n’t foolish!” cried Helen, her eyes aflame. 
“You ’ve pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid 
of you.” 

“You ’ve not been content to dream as we have ” 

“Though we have walked, too ” 

“I must show you a picture upstairs ” 

Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to 
take them to their evening party. 

“Oh, bother, not to say dash— I had forgotten we 
were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have 
a talk.” 

“Yes, you must— do,” echoed Margaret. 


148 


Howards End 


Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: “No, I 
shall not. It/s better like this.” 

“Why better?” asked Margaret. 

“No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I 
shall always look back on this talk with you as one 
of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. 
We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and 
there we had better leave it.” 

“That ’s rather a sad view of life, surely.” 

“Things so often get spoiled.” 

“I know,” flashed Helen, “but people don’t.” 

He could not understand this. He continued in a 
vein which mingled true imagination and false. What 
he said was n’t wrong, but it was n’t right, and a false 
note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instru- 
ment might be in tune. One little strain, and it might 
be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, 
but he would not call again. There was a moment’s 
awkwardness, and then Helen said: “Go, then; perhaps 
you know best ; but never forget you ’re better than 
Jefferies.” And he went. Their hansom caught him 
up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and 
vanished with its accomplished load into the evening. 

London was beginning to illuminate herself against 
the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the 
main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glim- 
mered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson 
battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her 
smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down 
Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which 
adorned while it did not distract. She had never known 
the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried 
through her tinted wonders, very much part of the 


The Mystery Explained 149 

picture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had 
ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels 
— or, to speak more accurately, his interview with them 
— were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the 
first time that he had talked intimately to strangers. 
The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though 
the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be 
denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his sus- 
picions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to 
people whom he had scarcely seen. It brought him 
many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps 
the keenest happiness he had ever known was during 
a railway journey to Cambridge, where a decent- 
mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They 
had got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung 
reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles 
and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing 
they could start a friendship, asked him to “coffee after 
hall, ” which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and 
took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where 
he lodged. He did not want Romance to collide with 
the Porphyrion, still less with Jacky, and people with 
fuller, happier lives are slow to understand this. To 
the Schlegels, as to the undergraduate, he was an inter- 
esting creature, of whom they wanted to see more. 
But they to him were denizens of Romance, who must 
keep to the corner he had assigned them, pictures that 
must not walk out of their frames. 

His behaviour over Margaret’s visiting-card had 
been typical. His had scarcely been a tragic marriage. 
Where there is no money and no inclination to violence 
tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave his 
wife, and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and 


150 


Howards End 


squalor were enough. Here “that card” had come in. 
Leonard, though furtive, was untidy, and left it lying 
about. Jacky found it, and then began, “What ’s that 
card, eh?” “Yes, don’t you wish you knew what that 
card was? ” “ Len, who ’s Miss Schlegel? ” etc. Months 

passed, and the card, now as a joke, now as a grievance, 
was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It 
followed them when they moved from Camelia Road to 
Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third parties. A few 
inches of pasteboard, it became the battlefield on which 
the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why 
did he not say, “A lady took my umbrella, another gave 
me this that I might call for my umbrella”? Because 
Jacky would have disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly 
because he was sentimental. No affection gathered 
round the card, but it symbolised the life of culture, 
that Jacky should never spoil. At night he would say 
to himself, “Well, at all events, she does n’t know about 
that card. Yah! done her there!” 

Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great 
deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion — she was 
only capable of drawing one conclusion — and in the 
fulness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday 
Leonard had refused to speak to her, and had spent 
the evening observing the stars. On the Saturday 
he went up, as usual, to town, but he came not back 
Saturday night, nor Sunday morning, nor Sunday 
afternoon. The inconvenience grew intolerable, and 
though she was now of a retiring habit, and shy of 
women, she went up to Wickham Place. Leonard 
returned in her absence. The card, the fatal card, was 
gone from the pages of Ruskin, and he guessed what 
had happened. 


The Mystery Explained 151 

“Well?” he had exclaimed, greeting her with peals 
of laughter. “I know where you’ve been, but you 
don’t know where I ’ve been.” 

Jacky sighed, said, “Len, I do think you might 
explain,” and resumed domesticity. 

Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leonard 
was too silly — or it is tempting to write, too sound a 
chap to attempt them. His reticence was not entirely 
the shoddy article that a business life promotes, the 
reticence that pretends that nothing is something, and 
hides behind the Daily Telegraph. The adventurer, 
also, is reticent, and it is an adventure for a clerk to 
walk for a few hours in darkness. You may laugh at 
him, you who have slept nights out on the veldt, with 
your rifle beside you and all the atmosphere of adventure 
pat. And you also may laugh who think adventures 
silly. But do not be surprised if Leonard is shy whenever 
he meets you, and if the Schlegels rather than Jacky 
hear about the dawn. 

That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish became 
a permanent joy. He was at his best when he thought 
of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed home beneath 
fading heavens. Somehow the barriers of wealth hg,d 
fallen, and there had been — he could not phrase it — a 
general assertion of the wonder of the world. “My 
conviction,” says the mystic, “gains infinitely the 
moment another soul will believe in it,” and they had 
agreed that there was something beyond life’s daily 
grey. He took off his top-hat and smoothed it thought- 
fully. He had hitherto supposed the unknown to 
be books, literature, clever conversation, culture. One 
raised oneself by study, and got upsides with the world. 
But in that quick interchange a new light dawned. 


152 


Howards End 


Was that “something” walking in the dark among the 
suburban hills? 

He discovered that he was going bareheaded down 
Regent Street. London came back with a rush. Few 
were about at this hour, but all whom he passed looked 
at him with a hostility that was the more impressive 
because it was unconscious. He put his hat on. It 
was too big; his head disappeared like a pudding into 
a basin, the ears bending outwards at the touch of the 
curly brim. He wore it a little backwards, and its 
effect was greatly to elongate the face and to bring 
out the distance between the eyes and the moustache. 
Thus equipped, he escaped criticism. No one felt 
uneasy as he ti tupped along the pavements, the heart 
of a man ticking fast in his chest. 


CHAPTER XV 

A Special Case 

The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure, 
and when they were both full of the same subject, there 
were few dinner-parties that could stand up against 
them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had 
more kick in it than most, but succumbed after a strug- 
gle. Helen at one part of the table, Margaret at the 
other, would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one else, and 
somewhere about the entree their monologues collided, 
fell ruining, and became common property. Nor was 
this all. The dinner-party was really an informal 
discussion club; there was a paper after it, read amid 
coffee-cups and laughter in the drawing-room, but 
dealing more or less thoughtfully with some topic of 
general interest. After the paper came a debate, and 
in this debate Mr. Bast also figured, appearing now 
as a bright spot in civilisation, now as a dark spot, 
according to the temperament of the speaker. The sub- 
ject of the paper had been, ‘‘How ought I to dispose of 
my money?” the reader professing to be a millionaire 
on the point of death, inclined to bequeath her fortune 
for the foundation of local art galleries, but open to 
conviction from other sources. The various parts had 
i53 


154 


Howards End 


been assigned beforehand, and some of the speeches 
were amusing. The hostess assumed the ungrateful 
r61e of “the millionaire’s eldest son,” and implored 
her expiring parent not to dislocate Society by allowing 
such vast sums to pass out of the family. Money was 
the fruit of self-denial, and the second generation had 
a right to profit by the self-denial of the first. What 
right had “Mr. Bast” to profit? The National Gallery 
was good enough for the likes of him. After property 
had had its say — a saying that is necessarily ungracious 
— the various philanthropists stepped forward. Some- 
thing must be done for “Mr. Bast”; his conditions must 
be improved without impairing his independence; he 
must have a free library, or free tennis-courts; his rent 
must be paid in such a way that he did not know it was 
being paid; it must be made worth his while to join 
the Territorials;- he must be forcibly parted from his 
uninspiring wife, the money going to her as compen- 
sation; he must be assigned a Twin Star, some member 
of the leisured classes who would watch over him cease- 
lessly (groans from Helen) ; he must be given food but 
no clothes, clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to 
Venice, without either food or clothes when he arrived 
there. In short, he might be given anything and every- 
thing so long as it was not the money itself. 

And here Margaret interrupted. 

“Order, order, Miss Schlegel!” said the reader of the 
paper. “You are here, I understand, to advise me in 
the interests of the Society for the Preservation of 
Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I 
cannot have you speaking out of your r61e. It makes 
my poor head go round, and I think you forget that I 
am very ill,” 


155 


A Special Case 

“Your head won’t go round if only you ’ll listen to 
my argument,” said Margaret. “Why not give him 
the money itself? You ’re supposed to have about 
thirty thousand a year.” 

“Have I? I thought I had a million.” 

“Was n’t a million your capital? Dear me! we ought 
to have settled that. Still, it does n’t matter. Whatever 
you ’ve got, I order you to give as many poor men as you 
can three hundred a year each.” 

“But that would be pauperising them,” said an 
earnest girl, who liked the Schlegels, but thought them 
a little unspiritual at times. 

“Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall 
would not pauperise a man. It is these little driblets, 
distributed among too many, that do the harm. Money ’s 
educational. It ’s far more educational than the things 
it buys.” There was a protest. “In a sense,” added 
Margaret, but the protest continued. “Well, isn’t 
the most civilized thing going, the man who has learnt 
to wear his income properly?” 

“Exactly what your Mr. Basts won’t do.” 

“Give them a chance. Give them money. Don’t 
dole them out poetry-books and railway-tickets like 
babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these 
things. When your Socialism comes it may be different, 
and we may think in terms of commodities instead of 
cash. Till it comes give people cash, for it is the warp 
of civilisation, whatever the woof may be. The im- 
agination ought to play upon money and realise it 
vividly, for it ’s the — the second most important thing 
in the world. It is so slurred over and hushed up, there 
is so little clear thinking — oh, political economy, of 
course, but so few of us think clearly about our own 


156 


Howards End 


private incomes, and admit that independent thoughts 
are in nine cases out of ten the result of independent 
means. Money: give Mr. Bast money, and don’t 
bother about his ideals. He ’ll pick up those for himself. ” 

She leant back while the more earnest members of 
the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, 
though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to 
hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel 
was asked however she could say such dreadful things, 
and what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole 
world and lost his own soul. She answered, “Nothing, 
but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a 
little of the world.” Then they said, “No, we do not 
believe it,” and she admitted that an overworked clerk 
may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the 
effort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he 
will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world, 
will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain 
to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. 
Others had attacked the fabric of Society — Property, 
Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few human 
beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could 
be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless : 
the many-coloured efforts thereto spreading over the 
vast area like films and resulting in an universal grey. 
To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the 
utmost she dare hope for. 

Between the idealists, and the political economists, 
Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they 
agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the adminis- 
tration of the millionaire’s money in their own hands. 
The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of “personal 
supervision and mutual help,” the effect of which was 


157 


A Special Case 

to alter poor people until they became exactly like people 
who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently re- 
marked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among 
the millionaire’s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted 
the claim, and another claim was at once set up by 
Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire’s 
housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; 
was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? 
The millionaire then read out her last will and testament, 
in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious 
parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the 
playful — in a men’s debate is the reverse more general? — 
but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen 
happy ladies dispersed to their homes. 

Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as 
far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all 
the way. When she had gone they were conscious of 
an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. 
They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps 
and the plane-trees, following the line of the embank- 
ment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English 
cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there 
occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled 
out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the 
whisper of the rising tide. There is something conti- 
nental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space 
used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than 
here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind 
them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in 
which some endless trilogy was performing, and they 
themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not 
mind losing a little of the second act. 


158 


Howards End 


“Cold?” 

“No.” 

“Tired?” 

“Does n’t matter.” 

The earnest girl’s train rumbled away over the bridge. 

“I say, Helen ” 

“Well?” 

“Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I think we won’t.” 

“As you like.” 

“It’s no good, I think, unless you really mean to 
know people. The discussion brought that home to 
me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of 
excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We 
must n’t play at friendship. No, it ’s no good.” 

“There’s Mrs. Lanoline, too,” Helen yawned. “So 
dull.” 

“Just so, and possibly worse than dull.” 

“ I should like to know how he got hold of your card. ” 

“But he said — something about a concert and an 
umbrella ” 

“Then did the card see the wife ” 

“Helen, come to bed.” 

“No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; 
oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then what ’s the woof?” 

“Very much what one chooses,” said Margaret. 
“ It ’s something that is n’t money — one can’t say more.” 

“Walking at night?” 

“Probably.” 

“For Tibby, Oxford?” 


159 


A Special Case 

“It seems so.” 

“For you?” 

“Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin 
to think it ’s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly 
Howards End.” 

One’s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. 
Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, 
heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards 
the speakers. 

“It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more 
important than people,” continued Margaret. 

“Why, Meg? They’re so much nicer generally. 
I’ d rather think of that forester’s house in Pomerania 
than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it. ” 

“I believe we shall come to care about people less and 
less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier 
it becomes to replace them. It ’s one of the curses of 
London. I quite expect to end my life caring most 
for a place.” 

Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks 
since they had met. 

“How do you do? ” he cried. “I thought I recognised 
your voices. Whatever are you both doing down 
here?” 

His tones were protective. He implied that one 
ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a 
male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret ac- 
cepted it as part of the good man’s equipment. 

“What an age it is since I ’ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. 
I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you 
have good news of your son.” 

“Paul?” said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, 
and sitting down between them. “Oh, Paul ’s all right. 


160 Howards End 

We had a line from Madeira. He ’ll be at work again 
by now.” 

“Ugh — ” said Helen, shuddering from complex 
causes. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Is n’t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?” 

“Some one ’s got to go,” he said simply. “England 
will never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared 
to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa, 
Ger — untold complications may follow. Now tell me 
all your news. ” 

“Oh, we’ve had a splendid evening,” cried Helen, 
who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. “We 
belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret 
and I — all women, but there is a discussion after. This 
evening it was on how one ought to leave one’s money — 
whether to one’s family, or to the poor, and if so how — 
oh, most interesting.” 

The man of business smiled. Since his wife’s death 
he had almost doubled his income. He was an im- 
portant figure at last, a reassuring name on company 
prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The 
world seemed in his grasp as he listened to the River 
Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So 
wonderful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him. 
He had helped to shorten its long tidal trough by taking 
shares in the lock at Teddington, and if he and other 
capitalists thought good, some day it could be shortened 
again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable 
but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his 
hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he 
did not know could not be worth knowing. 

1 ‘ Sounds a most original entertainment ! ” he exclaimed , 


A Special Case 161 

and laughed in his pleasant way. “I wish Evie would 
go to that sort of thing. But she has n’t the time. 
She ’s taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers — jolly little 
dogs.” 

“I expect we ’d better be doing the same, really.” 

“We pretend we’re improving ourselves, you see,” 
said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is 
not of the kind that returns, and she had bitter mem- 
ories of the days when a speech such as he had just made 
would have impressed her favourably. “We suppose 
it a good thing to waste an evening once a fortnight 
over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may be better 
to breed dogs.” 

“ Not at all. I don’t agree with your sister. There ’s 
nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often 
wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. 
It would have helped me no end.” 

1 ‘ Quickness ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time 
I ’ve missed scoring a point because the other man has 
had the gift of the gab and I have n’t. Oh, I believe 
in these discussions. ” 

The patronising tone, thought Margaret, came well 
enough from a man who was old enough to be their 
father. She had always maintained that Mr. Wilcox 
had a charm. In times of sorrow or emotion his in- 
adequacy had pained her, but it was pleasant to listen 
to him now, and to watch his thick brown moustache 
and high forehead confronting the stars. But Helen 
was nettled. The aim of their debates she implied was 
Truth. 

“Oh yes, it doesn’t much matter what subject you 
take,” said he. 


ii 


Howards End 


162 


Margaret laughed and said, “But this is going to be 
far better than the debate itself.” Helen recovered 
herself and laughed too. “No, I won’t go on,” she 
declared. “I ’ll just put our special case to Mr. Wilcox.” 

“About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He ’ll be more lenient 
to a special case. ” 

“But, Mr. Wilcox, do first light another cigarette. 
It ’s this. We ’ve just come across a young fellow, 
who ’s evidently very poor, and who seems interest ” 

“What ’s his profession?” 

“Clerk.” 

“What in?” 

“Do you remember, Margaret?” 

“Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company.” 

“Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new 
hearth rug. He seems interesting, in some ways very, 
and one wishes one could help him. He is married to 
a wife whom he does n’t seem to care for much. He 
likes books, and what one may roughly call adventure, 
and if he had a chance — But he is so poor. He lives 
a life where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and 
clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too 
strong for him and that he will sink. Well, he got 
mixed up in our debate. He was n’t the subject of it, 
but it seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a million- 
aire died, and desired to leave money to help such a 
man. How should he be helped? Should he be given 
three hundred pounds a year direct, which was Mar- 
garet’s plan? Most of them thought this would pauper- 
ise him. Should he and those like him be given free 
libraries? I said ‘No!’ He doesn’t want more books 
to read, but to read books rightly. My suggestion 
was he should be given something every year towards 


A Special Case 163 

a summer holiday, but then there is his wife, and they 
said she would have to go too. Nothing seemed quite 
right! Now what do you think? Imagine that you 
were a millionaire, and wanted to help the poor. What 
would you do?” 

Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below 
the standard indicated, laughed exuberantly. “My 
dear Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex 
has been unable to tread. I will not add another plan 
to the numerous excellent ones that have been already 
suggested. My only contribution is this: let your young 
friend clear out of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Com- 
pany with all possible speed.” 

“Why?” said Margaret. 

He lowered his voice. “This is between friends. 
It ’ll be in the Receiver’s hands before Christmas. 
It’ll smash,” he added, thinking that she had not 
understood. 

“ Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he ’ll have to 
get another place!” 

“ Will have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. 
Let him get one now.” 

“Rather than wait, to make sure?” 

“Decidedly.” 

“Why ’s that?” 

Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice. 
“Naturally the man who’s in a situation when he 
applies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position, 
than the man who is n’t. It looks as if he ’s worth 
something. I know by myself— (this is letting you 
into the State secrets)— it affects an employer greatly. 
Human nature, I ’m afraid.” 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” murmured Margaret, 


164 


Howards End 


while Helen said, “Our human nature appears to be the 
other way round. We employ people because they ’re 
unemployed. The boot man, for instance.” 

“And how does he clean the boots?” 

“Not well,” confessed Margaret. 

“There you are!” 

“Then do you really advise us to tell this youth ?” 

“I advise nothing,” he interrupted, glancing up and 
down the Embankment, in case his indiscretion had been 
overheard. “I ought n’t to have spoken — but I happen 
to know, being more or less behind the scenes. The 
Porphyrion ’s a bad, bad concern — Now, don’t say I 
said so. It ’s outside the Tariff Ring.” 

“Certainly I won’t say. In fact, I don’t know what 
that means. ” 

“I thought an insurance company never smashed,” 
was Helen’s contribution. “Don’t the others always 
run in and save them?” 

“You’re thinking of reinsurance,” said Mr. Wilcox 
mildly. “It is exactly there that the Porphyrion is 
weak. It has tried to undercut, has been badly hit 
by a long series of small fires, and it has n’t been able 
to reinsure. I ’m afraid that public companies don’t 
save one another for love.” 

“ ‘Human nature,’ I suppose,” quoted Helen, and he 
laughed and agreed that it was. When Margaret said 
that she supposed that clerks, like every one else, found 
it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he 
replied, “Yes, extremely,” and rose to rejoin his friends. 
He knew by his own office — seldom a vacant post, and 
hundreds of applicants for it; at present no vacant 
post. 

' “And how 's Howards End looking?” said Margaret, 


A Special Case 165 

wishing to change the subject before they parted. Mr. 
Wilcox was a little apt to think one wanted to get 
something out of him. 

“It ’s let.” 

“Really. And you wandering homeless in long- 
haired Chelsea? How strange are the ways of Fate!” 

“No; it’s let unfurnished. We’ve moved.” 

“Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for 
ever. E vie never told me. ” 

“I dare say when you met Evie the thing wasn’t 
settled. We only moved a week ago. Paul has rather 
a feeling for the old place, and we held on for him to 
have his holiday there; but, really, it is impossibly 
small. Endless drawbacks. I forget whether you ’ve 
been up to it?” 

“As far as the house, never.” 

“Well, Howards End is one of those converted farms. 
They don’t really do, spend what you will on them. 
We messed away with a garage all among the wych- 
elm roots, and last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow 
and attempted a rockery. Evie got rather keen on Alpine 
plants. But it didn’t do — no, it didn’t do. You re- 
member, your sister will remember, the farm with those 
abominable guinea-fowls, and the hedge that the old 
woman never would cut properly, so that it all went thin 
at the bottom. And, inside the house, the beams — and 
the staircase through a door — picturesque enough, but 
not a place to live in.” He glanced over the parapet 
cheerfully. “Full tide. And the position was n’t right 
either. The neighbourhood ’s getting suburban. Either 
be in London or out of it, I say; so we ’ve taken a house 
in Ducie Street, close to Sloane Street, and a place right 
down in Shropshire — Oniton Grange. Ever heard of 


166 


Howards End 


Oniton? Do come and see us — right away from every- 
where, up towards Wales.” 

“What a change!” said Margaret. But the change 
was in her own voice, which had become most sad. “I 
can’t imagine Howards End or Hilton without you.” 

“Hilton isn’t without us,” he replied. “Charles is 
there still.” 

“Still?” said Margaret, who had not kept up with 
the Charles’s. “But I thought he was still at Epsom. 
They were furnishing that Christmas — one Christmas. 
How everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles 
from our windows very often. Wasn’t it Epsom?” 

“Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles, 
the good chap” — his voice dropped — “thought I should 
be lonely. I did n’t want him to move, but he would, 
and took a house at the other end of Hilton, down by 
the Six Hills. He had a motor, too. There they all 
are, a very jolly party — he and she and the two 
grandchildren. ” 

“ I manage other people’s affairs so much better than 
they manage them themselves,” said Margaret as they 
shook hands. “When you moved out of Howards End, 
I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I 
should have kept so remarkable a place in the family.” 

“So it is,” he replied. “I haven’t sold it, and don’t 
mean to.” 

“No; but none of you are there.” 

“ Oh, we ’ve got a splendid tenant — Hamar Bryce, 
an invalid. If Charles ever wanted it — but he won’t. 
Dolly is so dependent on modern conveniences. No, 
we have all decided against Howards End. We like 
it in a way, but now we feel that it is neither one thing 
nor the other. One must have one thing or the other. ” 


A Special Case 167 

“And some people are lucky enough to have both. 
You ’re doing yourself proud, Mr. Wilcox. My 
congratulations. ” 

“And mine,” said Helen. 

“Do remind Evie to come and see us — 2 Wickham 
Place. We shan’t be there very long, either.” 

“You, too, on the move?” 

“Next September,” Margaret sighed. 

1 1 Every one moving ! Good-bye. ’ ’ 

The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over 
the * parapet and watched it sadly. Mr. Wilcox had 
forgotten his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was 
probably forgetting. Every one moving. Is it worth 
while attempting the past when there is this continual 
flux even in the hearts of men? 

Helen roused her by saying: “What a prosperous 
vulgarian Mr. Wilcox has grown! I have very little 
use for him in these days. However, he did tell us about 
the Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon 
as ever we get home, and tell him to clear out of it at 
once.” 

“ Do; yes, that ’s worth doing. Let us. ” 

“Let ’s ask him to tea. ” 


CHAPTER XVI 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 

Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. 
But he was right; the visit proved a conspicuous failure. 

“ Sugar?” said Margaret. 

“Cake?” said Helen. “The big cake or the little 
deadlies? I ’m afraid you thought my letter rather 
odd, but we ’ll explain — we are n’t odd, really — nor 
affected, really. We’re over-expressive — that’s all.” 

As a lady ’s lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was 
not an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood 
there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious 
repartee. His wit was the Cockney’s; it opened no 
doors into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short 
by “The more a lady has to say, the better,” adminis- 
tered waggishly. 

“Oh yes,” she said. 

“Ladies brighten ” 

“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. 
Let me give you a plate. ” 

“How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret. 

He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have these 
women prying into his work. They were Romance, 
1 68 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 169 

and so was the room to which he had at last penetrated, 
with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its 
walls, and so were the very tea-cups, with their delicate 
borders of wild strawberries. But he would not let 
Romance interfere with his life. There is the devil 
to pay then. 

“Oh, well enough, ” he answered. 

“Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, that ’s so” — becoming rather offended. “It ’s 
funny how things get round.” 

“Why funny?” asked Helen, who did not follow the 
workings of his mind. “It was written as large as life 
on your card, and considering we wrote to you there, 
and that you replied on the stamped paper ” 

“Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big 
Insurance Companies?” pursued Margaret. 

“It depends on what you call big.” 

“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, 
that offers a reasonably good career to its employes.” 

“I couldn’t say — some would tell you one thing 
and others another,” said the employ^ uneasily. “For 
my own part” — he shook his head — “I only believe 
half I hear. Not that even; it ’s safer. Those clever 
ones come to the worse grief, I ’ve often noticed. Ah, 
you can’t be too careful. ” 

He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going 
to be one of those moustaches that always droop into 
tea-cups — more bother than they ’re worth, surely, 
and not fashionable either. 

“ I quite agree, and that ’s why I was curious to know; 
is it a solid, well-established concern?” 

Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner 
of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired 


170 


Howards End 


to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under 
these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed 
safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion 
was the Porphyrion of the advertisement — a giant, in 
the classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held 
in one hand a burning torch, and pointed with the other 
to St. Paul’s and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money 
was inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions. 
This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write 
letters, to explain the regulations to new clients, and 
re-explain them to old ones. A giant was of an impulsive 
morality — one knew that much. He would pay for 
Mrs. Munt’s hearthrug with ostentatious haste, a large 
claim he would repudiate quietly, and fight court by 
court. But his true fighting weight, his antecedents, 
his amours with other members of the commercial 
Pantheon — all these were as uncertain to ordinary 
mortals as were the escapades of Zeus. While the gods 
are powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in 
the days of their decadence that a strong light beats 
into heaven. 

“We were told the Porphyrion ’s no go,” blurted 
Helen. “We wanted to tell you; that ’s why we wrote.” 

“A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently 
reinsured,” said Margaret. 

Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the 
Porphyrion. “You can tell your friend,” he said, 
“that he ’s quite wrong.” 

“Oh, good!” 

The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be 
wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being 
wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been 
misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 171 

"‘Wrong, so to speak,” he added. 

“How ‘so to speak?” 

“I mean I would n’t say he ’s right altogether.” 

But this was a blunder. “Then he is right partly,” 
said the elder woman, quick as lightning. 

Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if 
it came to that. 

“Mr. Bast, I don’t understand business, and I dare 
say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what 
makes a concern ‘right’ or ‘wrong’?” 

Leonard sat back with a sigh. 

“Our friend, who is also a business man, was so posi- 
tive. He said before Christmas ” 

“And advised you to clear out of it,” concluded 
Helen. “But I don’t see why he should know better 
than you do. ” 

Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say 
that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a 
commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could 
he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it 
away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving 
it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was 
something between the two, with vast possibilities in 
either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four 
sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between 
the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, 
but “the Miss Schlegels” still remained a composite 
Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory 
speeches were the product of a single mind. 

“One can but see,” he remarked, adding, “as Ibsen 
says, ‘things happen.’ ” He was itching to talk about 
books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute 
after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with im- 


172 


Howards End 


perfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or 
praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew an- 
noyed — perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about 
not being one of those who minded their affairs being 
talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. 
Men might have shown more tact. Women, however 
tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot 
see why we should shroud our incomes and our pro- 
spects in a veil. “How much exactly have you, and 
how much do you expect to have next June?” And 
these were women with a theory, who held that reticence 
about money matters is absurd, and that life would be 
truer if each would state the exact size of the golden 
island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp 
over which he throws the woof that is not money. How 
can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? 

And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky 
and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no 
longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books fever- 
ishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when 
Margaret said, “So you like Carlyle,” and then the door 
opened, and “Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox” entered, pre- 
ceded by two prancing puppies. 

“Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly 
sweet!” screamed Helen, falling on her hands and 
knees. 

“We brought the little fellows round,” said Mr. 
Wilcox. 

“ I bred ’em myself. ” 

“Oh, really ! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies. ” 

“I ’ve got to be going now,” said Leonard sourly. 

“But play with puppies a little first.” 

“This is Ahab, that ’s Jezebel,” said Evie, who was 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 173 

one of those who name animals after the less successful 
characters of Old Testament history. 

“I ’ve got to be going. ” 

Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice 
him. 

“Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba — Must you be really? 
Good-bye!” 

“Come again,” said Helen from the floor. 

Then Leonard’s gorge arose. Why should he come 
again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: 
“No, I shan’t; I knew it would be a failure.” 

Most people would have let him go. “A little mis- 
take. We tried knowing another class — impossible.” 
But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had 
attempted friendship, and they would take the conse- 
quences. Helen retorted, “I call that a very rude re- 
mark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?” 
and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar 
row. 

“You ask me why I turn on you?” 

“Yes.” 

“What do you want to have me here for?’ 

“To help you, you silly boy!” cried Helen. “And 
don’t shout.” 

11 1 don’t want your patronage. I don’t want your 
tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to un- 
settle me for?” He turned to Mr. Wilcox. “I put it 
to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my 
brain picked?” 

Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humor- 
ous strength that he could so well command. “Are 
we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or 
shall we go?” 


174 


Howards End 


But Margaret ignored him. 

“I’m connected with a leading insurance company, 
sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these 
— ladies” (he drawled the word). “I come, and it’s 
to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?” 

“Highly unfair,” said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp 
from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming 
dangerous. 

“There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman 
says. There! Not content with” — pointing at Mar- 
garet — “you can’t deny it.” His voice rose; he was 
falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. “But 
as soon as I ’m useful it ’s a very different thing. * Oh 
yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his 
brains.’ Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I ’m 
a quiet fellow: I ’m law-abiding, I don’t wish any 
unpleasantness; but I — I ” 

“You,” said Margaret — “you — you ” 

Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. 

“You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole 
Star.” 

More laughter. 

“You saw the sunrise.” 

Laughter. 

“You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling 
us all — away past books and houses to the truth. You 
were looking for a real home.” 

“I fail to see the connection,” said Leonard, hot with 
stupid anger. 

“So do I.” There was a pause. “You were that 
last Sunday — you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and 
my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help 
you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 175 

have you here out of charity — which bores us — but 
because we hoped there would be a connection between 
last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your 
stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do 
not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered 
into mine, but into yours, we thought — Have n’t 
we all to struggle against life’s daily grey ness, against 
pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against sus- 
picion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others 
I have known by remembering some place — some beloved 
place or tree — we thought you one of these.” 

“Of course, if there’s been any misunderstanding,” 
mumbled Leonard, “all I can do is to go. But I beg 
to state — ” He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced 
at his boots and made him look ridiculous. “You 
were picking my brain for official information — I can 
prove it — I — ” He blew his nose and left them. 

“Can I help you now?” said Mr. Wilcox, turning to 
Margaret. “May I have one quiet word with him in 
the hall?” 

“Helen, go after him — do anything — anything — to 
make the noodle understand.” 

Helen hesitated. 

“But really — ” said their visitor. “Ought she to?” 

At once she went. 

He resumed. “I would have chimed in, but I felt 
that you could polish him off for yourselves — I did n’t 
interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel — abso- 
lutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there 
are very few women who could have managed him.” 

“Oh yes,” said Margaret distractedly. 

“Bowling him over with those long sentences was 
what fetched me,” cried Evie. 


176 


Howards End 


“Yes, indeed,” chuckled her father; “all that part 
about ‘mechanical cheerfulness’ — oh, fine!” 

“I’m very sorry,” said Margaret, collecting herself. 
“ He ’s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set 
him off. It has been most unpleasant for you.” 

“ Oh, I did n’t mind. ” Then he changed his mood. He 
asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission 
given, said: “Ought n’t you really to be more careful?” 

Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed 
after Helen. “ Do you realise that it ’s all your fault?” 
she said. “You ’re responsible. ’ ’ 

“I?” 

“This is the young man whom we were to warn 
against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and — look!” 

Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. “I hardly consider that 
a fair deduction, ” he said. 

“Obviously unfair,” said Margaret. “I was only 
thinking how tangled things are. It ’s our fault mostly 
— neither yours nor his. ” 

“Not his?” 

“No.” 

“Miss Schlegel, you are too kind.” 

“Yes, indeed,” nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. 

“You behave much too well to people, and then they 
impose on you. I know the world and that type of 
man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had 
not been treating him properly. You must keep that 
type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. 
Sad, but true. They are n’t our sort, and one must face 
the fact. 

“Ye-es.” 

“Do admit that we should never have had the out- 
burst if he was a gentleman.” 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 177 

“ I admit it willingly, ” said Margaret, who was pacing 
up and down the room. “A gentleman would have kept 
his suspicions to himself.’' 

Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. 

'“What did he suspect you of?” 

“Of wanting to make money out of him.” 

“Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?” 

“Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding 
suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would 
have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does 
make men intolerable brutes. ” 

“I come back to my original point. You ought to be 
more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to 
have orders not to let such people in.” 

She turned to him frankly. “Let me explain exactly 
why we like this man, and want to see him again.” 

“That’s your clever way of talking. I shall never 
believe you like him. ” 

“I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical ad- 
venture, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and 
shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, 
he cares for something special in adventure. It is 
quickest to call that special something poetry ” 

“Oh, he ’s one of that writer sort.” 

“No — oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be 
loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of 
books, culture — horrible; we want him to wash out his 
brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him 
how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either 
friends or the country, some” — she hesitated — “either 
some very dear person or some very dear place seems 
necessary to relieve life’s daily grey, and to show that 
it is grey. If possible, one should have both.” 

za 


I7» 


Howards End 


Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let 
them run past. Others he caught and criticised with 
admirable lucidity. 

“Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mis- 
take. This young bounder has a life of his own. What 
right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or, 
as you call it, ‘grey’?” 

“Because ” 

“One minute. You know nothing about him. He 
probably has his own joys and interests — wife, children, 
snug little home. That ’s where we practical fellows ” — 
he smiled — “are more tolerant than you intellectuals. 
We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging 
on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain 
man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I 
quite grant — I look at the faces of the clerks in my own 
office, and observe them to be dull, but I don’t know 
what ’s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. 
I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, 
and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry 
with* you. What do you know about London? You 
only see civilisation from the outside. I don’t say in 
your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to 
morbidity, discontent, and Socialism.” 

She admitted the strength of his position, though it 
undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts 
of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she 
retreated to what she called her “second line” — to the 
special facts of the case. 

“His wife is an old bore,” she said simply. “He 
never came home last Saturday night because he wanted 
to be alone, and she thought he was with us.” 

“With you? 1 ' 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 179 

‘‘Yes.” Evie tittered. “He hasn’t got the cosy 
home that you assumed. He needs outside interests.” 

“Naughty young man!” cried the girl. 

“Naughty?” said Margaret, who hated naughtiness 
more than sin. “When you ’re married, Miss Wilcox, 
won’t you want outside interests?” 

“He has apparently got them,” put in Mr. Wilcox 
slyly. 

“Yes, indeed, father.” 

“He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that,” said 
Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. 

“Oh, I dare say!” 

“ Miss Wilcox, he was ! ” 

“M-m-m-m!” from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the 
episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would 
not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret’s 
reputation as an emancipated woman. 

“He said so, and about such a thing he would n’t lie. ” 

They both began to laugh. 

“ That ’s where I differ from you. Men lie about their 
positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that 
sort.” 

He shook his head. “Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but 
I know the type.” 

“I said before — he isn’t a type. He cares about 
adventures rightly. He ’s certain that our smug ex- 
istence is n’t all. He ’s vulgar and hysterical and 
bookish, but don’t think that sums him up. There ’s 
manhood in him as well. Yes, that ’s what I ’m trying 
to say. He ’s a real man.” 

As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. 
Wilcox’s defences fell. She saw back to the real man 
in him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. 


i8o 


Howards End 


A woman and two men — they had formed the magic 
triangle of sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy, 
in case the female was attracted by another male. 
Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with 
the beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the 
real shame. It is jealousy, not love, that connects us 
with the farmyard intolerably, and calls up visions of 
two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret 
crushed complacency down because she was civilised. 
Mr. Wilcox, uncivilised, continued to feel anger long 
after he had rebuilt his defences, and was again pre- 
senting a bastion to the world. 

“ Miss Schlegel, you ’re a pair of dear creatures, but 
you really must be careful in this uncharitable world. 
What does your brother say?” 

“I forget.” 

“Surely he has some opinion?” 

“He laughs, if I remember correctly.” 

“He ’s very clever, is n’t he?” said Evie, who had met 
and detested Tibby at Oxford. 

“Yes, pretty well — but I wonder what Helen’s doing.” 

“She is very young to undertake this sort of thing,” 
said Mr. Wilcox. 

Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no 
sound, and "Mr. Bast’s topper was missing from the 
hall. 

“Helen!” she called. 

“Yes!” replied a voice from the library. 

“You in there?” 

“Yes — he ’s gone some time. ” 

Margaret went to her. “Why, you’re all alone,” 
she said. 

“Yes — it ’s all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature ” 


The Schlegels Apply their Theories 181 

“Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later — Mr. 
W much concerned, and slightly titillated.” 

“Oh, I ’ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor 
dear Mr. Bast ! he wanted to talk literature, and we would 
talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so 
worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily.” 

“Well done,” said Margaret, kissing her, “but come 
into the drawing-room now, and don’t talk about him 
to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing.” 

Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that 
reassured their visitor — this hen at all events was 
fancy-free. 

“He ’s gone with my blessing,” she cried, “and now 
for puppies.” 

As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: 

“I am really concerned at the way those girls go on. 
They are as clever as you make ’em, but unpractical — 
God bless me ! One of these days they ’ll go too far. 
Girls like that ought n’t to live alone in London. Until 
they marry, they ought to have some one to look after 
them. We must look in more often — we ’re better 
than no one. You like them, don’t you, Evie?” 

Evie replied: “Helen’s right enough, but I can’t 
stand the toothy one. And I shouldn’t have called 
either of them girls.” 

Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the 
glow of youth under sunburn, built firmly and firm- 
lipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could do in the 
way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and 
her father were the only things she loved, but the net 
of matrimony was being prepared for her, and a few 
days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an 
uncle of Mrs. Charles’s, and he was attracted to her. 


CHAPTER XVII 

A Surprise for Margaret 

The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a 
proprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture be- 
comes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights 
wondering where, where on earth they and all their 
belongings would be deposited in September next. 
Chairs, tables, pictures, books, that had rumbled down 
to them through the generations, must rumble forward 
again like a slide of rubbish to which she longed to give 
the final push, and send toppling into the sea. But 
there were all their father’s books — they never read 
them, but they were their father’s, and must be kept. 
There was the marble-topped chiffonier — their mother 
had set store by it, they could not remember why. 
Round every knob and cushion in the house gathered a 
sentiment that was at times personal, but more often a 
faint piety to the dead, a prolongation of rites that 
might have ended at the grave. 

It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen and 
Tibby came to think of it; Margaret was too busy with 
the house-agents. The feudal ownership of land did 
bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of mov- 
ables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are 
182 


A Surprise for Margaret 183 

reverting to the civilisation of luggage, and historians 
! of the future will note how the middle classes accreted 
possessions without taking root in the earth, and may 
find in this the secret of their imaginative poverty. 
The Schlegels were certainly the poorer for the loss 
of Wickham Place. It had helped to balance their lives, 
and almost to counsel them. Nor is their ground- 
landlord spiritually the richer. He has built flats on 
its site, his motor-cars grow swifter, his exposures of 
Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt the precious 
distillation of the years, and no chemistry of his can 
give it back to society again. 

Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle 
on a house before they left town to pay their annual 
visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted 
to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, 
was stable, and this year she longed more than usual 
for its fresh air and for the magnificent downs that guard 
it on the north. But London thwarted her ; in its atmos- 
phere she could not concentrate. London only stimu- 
lates, it cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying over 
its surface for a house without knowing what sort of a 
house she wanted, was paying for many a thrilling 
sensation in the past. She could not even break loose 
from culture, and her time was wasted by concerts 
which it would be a sin to miss, and invitations which 
it would never do to refuse. At last she grew desperate; 
she resolved that she would go nowhere and be at home 
to no one until she found a house, and broke the resolu- 
tion in half an hour. 

Once she had humorously lamented that she had 
never been to Simpson’s restaurant in the Strand. 
Now a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her to 


1 84 


Howards End 


lunch there. Mr. Cahill was coming, and the three 
would have such a jolly chat, and perhaps end up at the 
Hippodrome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie, 
and no desire to meet her fiance, and she was surprised 
that Helen, who had been far funnier about Simpson’s, 
had not been asked instead. But the invitation touched 
her by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox 
better than she supposed, and declaring that she “simply 
must,” she accepted. 

But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restau- 
rant, staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of 
athletic women, her heart failed her anew. Miss 
Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her engagement. 
Her voice was gruffer, her manner more downright, 
and she was inclined to patronise the more foolish virgin. 
Margaret was silly enough to be pained at this. De- 
pressed at her isolation, she saw not only houses and 
furniture, but the vessel of life itself slipping past her, 
with people like Evie and Mr. Cahill on board. 

There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, 
and one of them came to her at Simpson’s in the Strand. 
As she trod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted thickly, 
as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton 
were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had 
a strong, if erroneous, coviction of her own futility, and 
wished she had never come out of her backwater, 
where nothing happened except art and literature, 
and where no one ever got married or succeeded 
in remaining engaged. Then came a little surprise. 
“Father might be of the party — yes, father was.” 
With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet 
him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished. 

“I thought I ’d get round if I could, ” said he. “Evie 


A Surprise for Margaret 185 

told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secured 
a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don’t 
pretend you want to sit by your old father, because 
you don’t. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. 
My goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round 
after your young clerks?” 

“No, after houses,” said Margaret, edging past him 
into the box. “I’m hungry, not tired; I want to eat 
heaps.” 

“That ’s good. What ’ll you have?” ' 

“Fish pie,” said she, with a glance at the menu. 

“Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson’s. 
It ’s not a bit the thing to go for here.” 

“Go for something for me, then,” said Margaret, 
pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his 
reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. 

“Saddle of mutton,” said he after profound reflection; 
“and cider to drink. That’s the type of thing. I 
like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so 
thoroughly Old English. Don’t you agree?” 

“Yes,” said Margaret, who didn’t. The order was 
given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. 
Wilcox’s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, 
and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on 
sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later 
on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the 
“No, I did n’t; yes, you did” type — conversation which, 
though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, 
neither desires nor deserves the attention of others. 

“It’s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip every- 
where ’s my motto. ” 

“Perhaps it does make life more human.” 

“Then the fellows know one again. Especially in 


186 Howards End 

the East, if you tip, they remember you from year’s 
end to year’s end.” 

“Have you been in the East?” 

“Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for 
sport and business to Cyprus; some military society 
of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, 
helo to keep one ’s memory green. But you, of course, 
think this shockingly cynical. How ’s your discussion 
society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?” 

“No, I ’m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ’ve already 
told you once. Do you know of any houses?” 

“Afraid I don’t.” 

“Well, what ’s the point of being practical if you 
can’t find two distressed females a house? We merely 
want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of 
them. ” 

“Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn 
house-agent for her!” 

“What ’s that, father?” 

“I want a new home in September, and some one 
must find it. I can’t.” 

“Percy, do you know of anything?” 

“I can’t say I do,” said Mr. Cahill. 

“How like you! You ’re never any good.” 

“Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any 
good. Oh, come!” 

“Well, you aren’t. Miss Schlegel, is he?” 

The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops 
at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She 
sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored 
her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, 
and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries 
about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and 


A Surprise for Margaret 187 

admired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of 
our past. Though no more Old English than the works 
of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly 
that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it 
was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer 
semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps 
of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. “Right you are! 
I ’ll cable out to Uganda this evening,’’ came from the 
table behind. “Their Emperor wants war; well, let 
him have it,” was the opinion of a clergyman. She 
smiled at such incongruities. “Next time,” she said 
to Mr. Wilcox, “you shall come to lunch with me at 
Mr. Eustace Miles’s.” 

“With pleasure.” 

“No, you’d hate it,” she said, pushing her glass 
towards him for some more cider. “It’s all proteids 
and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg 
your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura.” 

“A what?” 

“Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! 
I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?” 

He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. 

“Just so. Luckily it was Helen’s aura, not mine, 
and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. 
I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the 
man went.” 

“Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. 
No one ’s ever asked me about my — what d’ye call it? 
Perhaps I ’ve not got one.” 

“You’re bound to have one, but it may be such 
a terrible colour that no one dares mention it.” 

“Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe 
in the supernatural and all that?” 


188 


Howards End 


‘‘Too difficult a question.” 

‘‘Why’s that? Gruy&re or Stilton?” 

“Gruyere, please.” 

“Better have Stilton. 

“Stilton. Because, though I don’t believe in auras, 
and think Theosophy’s only a halfway-house ” 

“ — Yet there may be something in it all the same,” 
he concluded, with a frown. 

“Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong 
direction. I can’t explain. I don’t believe in all these 
fads, and yet I don’t like saying that I don’t believe 
in them.” 

He seemed unsatisfied, and said: “So you wouldn’t 
give me your word that you don't hold with astral bodies 
and all the rest of it?” 

“I could,” said Margaret, surprised that the point 
was of any importance to him. “Indeed, I will. When 
I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying 
to be funny. But why do you want this settled?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know.” 

“Yes, I am,” “No, you’re not,” burst from the 
lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, 
and then changed the subject. 

“How’s your house?” 

“ Much the same as when you honoured it last week. ” 

“ I don’t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course. ” 

“Why ‘of course’?” 

“Can’t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? 
We’re nearly demented.” 

“Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I 
thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: 
fix your district, then fix your price, and then don’t 


A Surprise for Margaret 189 

budge. That ’s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. 
I said to myself, ‘ I mean to be exactly here, ’ and I was, 
and Oniton ’s a place in a thousand.” 

“But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerise 
houses — cow them with an eye, and up they come, 
trembling. Ladies can’t. It ’s the houses that are 
mesmerising me. I ’ve no control over the saucy 
things. Houses are alive. No?” 

“I ’m out of my depth, ” he said, and added: “ Did n’t 
you talk rather like that to your office boy?” 

“ Did I? — I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same 
way to every one — or try to.” 

“Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose 
he understood?” 

“That ’s his lookout. I don’t believe in suiting my 
conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit 
upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well 
enough, but it ’s no more like the real thing than money 
is like food. There ’s no nourishment in it. You 
pass it to the lower classes, and they pass it back to you, 
and this you call ‘social intercourse’ or ‘mutual en- 
deavour, ’ when it ’s mutual priggishness if it ’s any- 
thing. Our friends at Chelsea don’t see this. They 
say one ought to be at all costs intelligible, and 
sacrifice ” 

“Lower classes,” interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it were 
thrusting his hand into her speech. “Well, you do 
admit that there are rich and poor. That ’s something.” 

Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, 
or did he understand her better than she understood 
herself? 

“You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally, 
in a few years there would be rich and poor again just 


Howards End 


190 

the same. The hard-working man would come to the 
top, the wastrel sink to the bottom.” 

“ Every one admits that.” 

“Your Socialists don’t.” 

“My Socialists do. Yours mayn’t; but I strongly 
suspect yours of being not Socialists, but ninepins, 
which you have constructed for your own amusement. 
I can’t imagine any living creature who would bowl 
over quite so easily.” 

He would have resented this had she not been a 
woman. But women may say anything — it was one 
of his holiest beliefs — and he only retorted, with a gay 
smile: “I don’t care. You’ve made two damaging 
admissions, and I ’m heartily with you in both.” 

In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had 
excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave. 
Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that 
the entertainment had been planned by the father. 
He and she were advancing out of their respective 
families towards a more intimate acquaintance. It 
had begun long ago. She had been his wife’s friend 
and, as such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette 
as a memento. It was pretty of him to have given that 
vinaigrette, and he had always preferred her to Helen — 
unlike most men. But the advance had been astonish- 
ing lately. They had done more in a week than in two 
years, and were really beginning to know each other. 

She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace 
Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby 
as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body- 
building dishes with humility. 

Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They 
had not succeeded in finding a uew home. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
“Yes” or “No” 

As they were seated at Aunt Juley’s breakfast- table at 
The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoy- 
ing the view of the bay, a letter came for Margaret and 
threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. 
It announced an “important change” in his plans. 
Owing to Evie’s marriage, he had decided to give up his 
house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a 
yearly tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated 
frankly what he would do for them and what he would 
not do. Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret 
was to come up at once — the words were underlined, as 
is necessary when dealing with women — and to go over 
the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would 
oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent. 

The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it 
meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her 
to Simpson’s, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to 
London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put 
it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that 
her brain would cry, “Rubbish, you ’re a self-conscious 
fool ! ” But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, 
and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and 

191 


192 


Howards End 


wondering whether the news would seem strange to the 
others. 

As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own 
voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. 
The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversa- 
tion her fears vanished. 

“You need n’t go though — ” began her hostess. 

“I need n’t, but had n’t I better? It ’s really getting 
rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and 
the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage 
into the street. We don’t know what we want , that ’s the 
mischief with us ” 

“No, we have no real ties, ” said Helen, helping herself 
to toast. 

“Shan’t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it ’s 
the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon 
train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be 
no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my 
mind.” 

“But you won’t do anything rash, Margaret?” 

“There ’s nothing rash to do.” 

“Who are the Wilcoxes?” said Tibby, a question that 
sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt 
found to her cost when she tried to answer it. “I don’t 
manage the Wilcoxes; I don’t see where they come in . ” 

“ No more do I, ” agreed Helen. “ It ’s funny that we 
just don’t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel ac- 
quaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. 
It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from 
far more interesting people in that time. ” 

“Interesting people don’t get one houses.” 

“ Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall 
throw the treacle at you. ” 


‘‘Yes” or “No” 


i93 


“It ’s a better vein than the cosmopolitan,” said 
Margaret, getting up. “Now, children, which is it to 
be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say- 
yes or shall I say no? Tibby love — which? I ’m 
specially anxious to pin you both.” 

“It all depends on what meaning you attach to the 
word ‘possi 

“It depends on nothing of the sort. Say ‘yes.’ ” 

“Say ‘no.’” 

Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. “I think,” 
she said, “that our race is degenerating. We cannot 
settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we 
have to settle a big one?” 

“It will be as easy as eating,” returned Helen. 

‘ 1 1 was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave 
Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young 
man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? 
How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin 
aiming at something else? It would have killed me. 
When he was nearly forty he could change countries 
and ideals — and we, at our age, can’t change houses. 
It ’s humiliating. ” 

“Your father may have been able to change countries,” 
said Mrs. Munt with asperity, “and that may or may not 
be a good thing. But he could change houses no better 
than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget 
what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester. ” 

“I knew it,” cried Helen. “I told you so. It is the 
little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are 
nothing when they come. ” 

“Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect — 
in fact, you were n’t there. But the furniture was 
actually in the vans and on the move before the lease 


13 


194 


Howards End 


for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train 
with baby — who was Margaret then — and the smaller 
luggage for London, without so much as knowing where 
her new home would be. Getting away from that house 
may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all 
went through getting you into it.” 

Helen, with her mouth full, cried: 

“And that ’s the man who beat the Austrians, and the 
Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that 
were inside himself. And we ’re like him. ” 

“Speak for yourself,” said Tibby. “Remember that 
I am cosmopolitan, please.” 

“Helen may be right.” 

“Of course she ’s right,” said Helen. 

Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. 
Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst 
of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for 
feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away 
from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her 
father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been 
troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train 
and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had 
seen but yesterday. At Southampton she “waved” 
to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at 
Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their 
trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other 
way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary 
and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that 
Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a 
spinster — poor, silly, and unattractive — whose mania it 
was that every man who approached her fell in love. 
How Margaret’s heart had bled for the deluded thing! 
How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair ac- 


“Yes” or “No” 


i95 


quiesced! “I may have been deceived by the curate, 
my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday 
post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter of fact — ” 
It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner 
of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the 
mere pressure of virginity. 

Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt 
certain that he was not the same as usual; for one thing, 
he took offence at everything she said. 

“This is awfully kind of you,” she began, “but I ’m 
afraid it ’s not going to do. The house has not been 
built that suits the Schlegel family. ” 

“What! Have you come up determined not to deal?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“Not exactly? In that case let ’s be starting. ’ 

She lingered to admire the motor, which was new, and 
a fairer creature than the vermilion giant that had borne 
Aunt Juley to her doom three years before. 

“Presumably it’s very beautiful,” she said. “How 
do you like it, Crane?” 

“ Come, let ’s be starting, ” repeated her host. “ How 
on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called 
Crane?” 

“Why, I know Crane; I ’ve been for a drive with Evie 
once. I know that you ’ve got a parlourmaid called 
Milton. I know all sorts of things. ” 

“Evie!” he echoed in injured tones. “You won’t 
see her. She ’s gone out with Cahill. It ’s no fun, I 
can tell you, being left so much alone. I ’ve got my 
work all day — indeed, a great deal too much of it — but 
when I come home in the evening, I tell you, I can’t 
stand the house.” 

“In my absurd way, I’m lonely too,” Margaret 


196 


Howards End 


replied. “It ’s heart-breaking to leave one ’s old home. 
I scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, 
and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says 

“You, too, feel lonely?” 

“Horribly. Hullo, Parliament ’s back!” 

Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. 
The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. “Yes, 
they are talking again,” said he. “But you were going 
to say ” 

“Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it 
alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in 
the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas — 
just imagine it! — rolling through infinity with no one to 
sit upon them. ” 

“Your sister always likes her little joke.” 

“ She says ‘Yes,’ my brother says ‘ No,’ to Ducie Street. 
It ’s no fun helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. ” 

“You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall 
never believe it. ” 

Margaret laughed. But she was — quite as unpractical. 
She could not concentrate on details. Parliament, 
the Thames, the irresponsive chauffeur, would flash into 
the field of house-hunting, and all demand some com- 
ment or response. It is impossible to see modern life 
steadily and see it whole, and she had chosen to see it 
whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered 
over the mysterious or the private. The Thames might 
run inland from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all 
passion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. 
They knew their own business, and he knew his. 

Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke, but 
a stimulus, and banished morbidity. Some twenty 
years her senior, he preserved a gift that she supposed 


“Yes” or “No” 


197 


herself to have already lost — not youth’s creative 
power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was 
so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His com- 
plexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, 
the' thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had com- 
pared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, 
whether they were turned towards the slums or towards 
the stars. Some day — in the millennium — there may 
be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it 
from those who think themselves superior, and who 
possibly are. 

“At all events you responded to my telegram 
promptly,” he remarked. 

“Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it.” 

“I’m glad you don’t despise the goods of this world. ” 

“Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that.” 

“ I am glad, very glad, ” he repeated, suddenly softening 
and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. 
“There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual 
circles. I am glad you don’t share it. Self-denial is all 
very well as a means of strengthening the character. 
But I can’t stand those people who run down comforts. 
They have usually some axe to grind. Can you? ” 

“Comforts are of two kinds,” said Margaret, who was 
keeping herself in hand — “ those we can share with others, 
like fire, weather, or music; and those we can’t — food, 
for instance. It depends.” 

“I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I should n’t 
like to think that you — ” He bent nearer; the sen- 
tence died unfinished. Margaret’s head turned very 
stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the 
beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour 
was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the 


1 98 


Howards End 


stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was 
so charged with emotion that people only seemed to 
exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane 
did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she 
might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more — how should one 
put it? — more psychological than usual. Always a 
good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed 
this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities 
outside neatness, obedience, and decision. 

“I want to go over the whole house,” she announced 
when they arrived. “As soon as I get back to Swanage, 
which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ’ll talk it over once 
more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you ‘y es ’ or ‘no.’ ” 

“Right. The dining-room.” And they began their 
survey. 

The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea 
would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed 
those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and 
refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and 
pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, 
Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the 
frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots 
sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but 
those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with 
presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like 
men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen 
to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and 
hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, 
where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the 
Bible — the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back 
from the Boer War — fell into position. Such a room 
admitted loot. 

“Now the entrance-hall.” 


“Yes” or “No” 


199 


The entrance-hall was paved. 

“Here we fellows smoke.” 

We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It 
was as if a motor-car had spawned. “Oh, jolly!” said 
Margaret, sinking into one of them. 

“You do like it?” he said, fixing his eyes on her up- 
turned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate 
note. “ It ’s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. 
Is n’t it?” 

“Ye-es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?” 

“Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?” 

“Does all this furniture come from Howards End?” 

“The Howards End furniture has all gone to 
Oniton. ” 

“Does — However, I’m concerned with the house, 
not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room? ” 

“Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen 
and a half.” 

“Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at 
the solemnity with which we middle classes approach 
the subject of houses?” 

They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea man- 
aged better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One 
could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their 
lords discussed life’s realities below, to the accompani- 
ment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox’s drawing-room at 
Howards End looked thus ? Just as this thought en- 
tered Margaret’s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his 
wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so 
overcame her that she nearly fainted. 

But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s 
great love scenes. 

“Miss Schlegel” — his voice was firm — “I have had 


200 


Howards End 


you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a 
much more serious matter than a house.” 

Margaret almost answered: “I know ” 

“ Could you be induced to share my — is it probable — ” 
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox!” she interrupted, taking hold of the 
piano and averting her eyes. “I see, I see. I will write 
to you afterwards if I may.” 

He began to stammer. “Miss Schlegel — Margaret — 
you don’t understand. ” 

“ Oh yes ! Indeed, yes ! ” said Margaret. 

“I am asking you to be my wife. ” 

So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, 
“I am asking you to be my wife, ” she made herself give 
a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. 
An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. 
It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled 
the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine 
weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no 
central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room 
happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him 
she realised that the central radiance had been love. 

“You are n’t offended, Miss Schlegel?” 

“How could I be offended? ” 

. There was a moment’s pause. He was anxious to 
get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much in- 
tuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions 
that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and 
affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught 
‘herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle 
with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. 

“Good-bye, ” she continued. “You will have a letter 
from me — I am going back to Swanage to-morrow.” 
“Thank you.” 


“Yes” or “No” 


201 


“Good-bye, and it ’s you I thank.” 

“I may order the motor round, may n’t I ? ” 

“That would be most kind.” 

“I wish I had written instead. Ought I to have 
written?” 

“Not at all.” 

“There ’s just one question ” 

She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered and 
they parted. 

They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the 
interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. Yet 
she thrilled with happiness ere she reached her own 
house. Others had loved her in the past, if one may 
apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but those 
others had been “ninnies ” — young men who had nothing 
to do, old men who could find nobody better. And 
she had often “loved,” too, but only so far as the facts 
of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine, to 
be dismissed for what they were worth, with a smile. 
Never before had her personality been touched. She was 
not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of 
any standing should take her seriously. As she sat 
trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst 
beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion 
broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the 
night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her 
attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: “But 
I ’ve been through this sort of thing before.” She had 
never been through it; the big machinery, as opposed to 
the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. 
Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him 
in return. 

She would come to no decision yet. ‘ ‘ Oh, sir, this is so 


202 


Howards End 


sudden” — that prudish phrase exactly expressed her 
when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. 
She must examine more closely her own nature and his ; 
she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been 
a strange love-scene — the central radiance unacknow- 
ledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have 
said Ich liebe dick , but perhaps it was not his habit 
to open the heart. He might have done it if she had 
pressed him — as a matter of duty, perhaps; England 
expects every man to open his heart once ; but the effort 
would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, 
should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise 
against the world. He must never be bothered with 
emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was 
an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent 
to correct him. 

Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; 
surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint 
of bitterness. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Margaret Tells Helen 

If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps 
the wisest course would be to take him to the final section 
of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, 
a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after 
system of our island would roll together under his feet. 
Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild 
lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black 
and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. 
The valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream, 
dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne — the Stour, sliding 
out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower of 
Christ church. The valley of the Avon — invisible, but 
far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring 
that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond 
that on to Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the Plain 
to all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is 
Suburbia absent. Bournemouth’s ignoble coast cowers 
to the right, heralding the pine-trees that mean, for all 
their beauty, red houses, and the Stock Exchange, and 
extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous 
is the City’s trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall 
never touch, and the island will guard the Island’s 
203 


204 


Howards End 


purity till the end of time. Seen from the west the 
Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as 
if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the 
foreigner — chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome 
of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies 
Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, 
a latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble 
collision of tides, swirls the sea. How many villages 
appear in this view! How many castles! How many 
churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, 
railways, and roads! What incredible variety of men 
working beneath that lucent sky to what final end ! The 
reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the im- 
agination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes 
geographic and encircles England. 

So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, 
and mother to her husband’s baby, was brought up to 
these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged 
gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than 
in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. 
Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her 
to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich 
Wilhelms Bad, Riigen, where beech- trees hang over the 
tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. 
Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, 
water being safer when it moved about. 

“And your English lakes — Vindermere, Grasmere — 
are they, then, unhealthy?” 

“No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are 
fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have 
tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. 
Look, for instance, at an aquarium.” 

“An aquarium! Oh, Meesis Munt, you mean to tell 


205 


Margaret Tells Helen 

me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then 
Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles ” 

“You are not to say ‘stink,’ ” interrupted Helen; 
“at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are 
being funny while you say it.” 

“Then ‘smell.’ And the mud of your Pool down there 
— does it not smell, or may I say ‘stink,’ ha, ha?” 

“There always has been mud in Poole Harbour,” 
said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. “The rivers bring 
it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends 
upon it. ” 

“Yes, that is so,” conceded Frieda; and another in- 
ternational incident was closed. 

“ ‘Bournemouth is,’ ” resumed their hostess, quoting 
a local rhyme to which she was much attached — 
“ ‘Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the 
most important town of all and biggest of the three.’ 
Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, 
and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward 
a little, and look down again at Swanage.” 

“Aunt Juley, would n’t that be Meg’s train?” 

A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, 
and now was bearing southwards towards them over 
the black and the gold. 

“Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won’t be 
overtired. ” 

“Oh, I do wonder — I do wonder whether she ’s taken 
the house.” 

“I hope she has n’t been hasty.” 

“So do I — oh, so do I.” 

“Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?” Frieda 
asked. 

“ I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing 


206 


Howards End 


himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are 
beautiful in their modern way, and I can’t think why 
he does n’t keep on with it. But it ’s really for Evie 
that he went there, and now that Evie’s going to be 

married ” 

“Ah!” 

“You ’ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How 
absurdly matrimonial you are!” 

“But sister to that Paul?” 

“Yes.” 

“And to that Charles,” said Mrs. Munt with feeling. 
“Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was ! ” 

Helen laughed. “ Meg and I have n’t got such tender 
hearts. If there ’s a chance of a cheap house, we go 
for it.” 

“Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece’s train. 
You see, it is coming towards us — coming, coming; and, 
when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go through the 
downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk 
over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we 
shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?” 

Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed 
the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. 
Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of 
the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle 
of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most 
important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Mar- 
garet’s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted 
with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in 
the middle distance, and there it had been planned that 
Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, 
up to join them. 

“You see,” continued Helen to her cousin, “the 


207 


Margaret Tells Helen 

Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. 
They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where 
my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shrop- 
shire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, 
another near Epsom ; and six, Evie will have a house when 
she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country — 
which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa 
makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That 
was something like a dear little house! Didn’t you 
think so, Aunt Juley?” 

“I had too much to do, dear, to look at it,” said Mrs. 
Munt, with a gracious dignity. “I had everything to 
settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his 
place besides. It is n’t likely I should remember much. 
I just remember having lunch in your bedroom.” 

“Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all 
seems! And in the autumn there began that anti- 
Pauline movement — you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. 
Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry 
Paul.” 

“You yet may,” said Frieda despondently. 

Helen shook her head. “The Great Wilcox Peril will 
never return. If I ’m certain of anything it ’s of that.” 

“ One is certain of nothing but the truth of one ’s own 
emotions.” 

The remark fell damply on the conversation. But 
Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking 
her the better for making it. It was not an original 
remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, 
for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. 
Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the 
average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman 
does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the 


208 


Howards End 


beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the 
pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin’s 
beside a landscape of Leader’s, strident and ill-considered, 
but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened 
idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad 
preparation for what followed. 

“Look!” cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from 
generalities over the narrow summit of the down. 
“Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart 
coming. I see the pony-cart coming.” 

They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret 
and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving 
the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through 
the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. 

“Have you got the house?” they shouted, long before 
she could possibly hear. 

Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed 
over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles 
along the ridge of the down. 

“Have you got the house?” 

Margaret shook her head. 

“Oh, what a nuisance ! So we ’re as we were? ” 

“Not exactly.” 

She got out, looking tired. 

“Some mystery,” said Tibby. “We are to be en- 
lightened presently.” 

Margaret came close up to her and whispered that 
she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. 

Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the 
downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. 
“It ’s just like a widower,” she remarked. “They ’ve 
cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one 
of their first wife’s friends.” 


Margaret Tells Helen 209 

Margaret’s face flashed despair. 

“That type — ” She broke off with aery. “Meg, 
not anything wrong with you?” 

“Wait one minute,” said Margaret, whispering always. 

“But you ’ve never conceivably — you ’ve never — ” 
She pulled herself together. “ Tibby, hurry up through; 
I can’t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, 
Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ’ve 
got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards.” And 
then, turning her face to her sister’s, she burst into tears. 

Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, 
“Oh, really — ” She felt herself touched with a hand 
that trembled. 

“Don’t,” sobbed Helen, “don’t, don’t, Meg, don’t!” 
She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Mar- 
garet, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, 
till they strayed through another gate on to the down. 

“Don’t, don’t do such a thing! I tell you not to — 
don’t! I know — don’t!” 

“What do you know?” 

“Panic and emptiness,” sobbed Helen. “Don’t!” 

Then Margaret thought, “Helen is a little selfish. I 
have never behaved like this when there has seemed a 
chance of her marrying.” She said: “But we would 
still see each other very often, and you ” 

“It ’s not a thing like that,” sobbed Helen. And she 
broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, 
stretching her hands towards the view and crying. 

“What ’s happened to you?” called Margaret, follow- 
ing through the wind that gathers at sundown on the 
northern slopes of hills. “But it ’s stupid!” And 
suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense land- 
scape was blurred. But Helen turned back. 

14 


210 


Howards End 


“Meg ” 

“I don’t know what ’s happened to either of us,” said 
Margaret, wiping her eyes. “We must both have gone 
mad.” Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed 
a little. 

“Look here, sit down.” 

“All right; I ’ll sit down if you ’ll sit down.” 

“There. (One kiss.) Now, whatever, whatever is 
the matter?” 

“ I do mean what I said. Don’t; it would n’t do. ” 

“Oh, Helen, stop saying ‘don’t’! It ’s ignorant. It ’s 
as if your head was n’t out of the slime. ‘ Don’t’ is 
probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast. ” 

Helen was silent. 

“Well?” 

“Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ’ll 
have got my head out of the slime. ” 

“That ’s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I 
arrived at Waterloo — no, I ’ll go back before that, 
because I ’m anxious you should know everything from 
the first. The ‘first’ was about ten days ago. It was 
the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was 
defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about 
me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary 
thing, which men can’t help any more than we can. 
You know — at least, I know in my own case — when a 
man has said to me, ‘So-and-so’s a pretty girl,’ I am 
seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, 
and long to tweak her ear. It ’s a tiresome feeling, but 
not an important one, and one easily manages it. But 
it was n’t only this in Mr. Wilcox’s case, I gather now. ” 

“Then you love him?” 

Margaret considered. “It is wonderful knowing 


2 II 


Margaret Tells Helen 

that a real man cares for you,” she said. “The mere 
fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ’ve 
known and liked him steadily for nearly three years. ” 

“But loved him?” 

Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to 
analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and 
unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round 
Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this 
country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, 
she meditated honestly, and said, “No.” 

“But you will?” 

“Yes,” said Margaret, “of that I’m pretty sure. 
Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me. ” 

“And have settled to marry him?” 

“I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. 
What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say. ” 

Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. “ It is ever since 
Paul,” she said finally. 

“ But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul? ” 

“But he was there, they were all there that morning 
when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was 
frightened — the man who loved me frightened and all 
his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, 
because personal relations are the important thing for 
ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and 
anger.” 

She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her 
sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that 
were familiar between them. 

“That ’s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about 
the outer life. Well, we ’ve often argued that. The 
real point is that there is the widest gulf between my 
love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will 


212 


Howards End 


be prose. I ’m not running it down — a very good kind 
of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For 
instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox’s faults. He ’s afraid of 
emotion. He cares too much about success, too little 
about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so 
isn’t sympathy really. I ’d even say” — she looked at 
the shining lagoons — “that, spiritually, he’s not as 
honest as I am. Does n’t that satisfy you?” 

“No, it doesn’t,” said Helen. “It makes me feel 
worse and worse. You must be mad. ” 

Margaret made a movement of irritation. 

“I don’t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be 
all my life — good heavens, no ! There are heaps of things 
in me that he does n’t, and shall never, understand. ” 

Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the 
physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had 
fallen that interposes between married couples and the 
world. She was to keep her independence more than 
do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her for- 
tunes rather than her character, and she was no far 
wrong in boasting that she understood her future hus- 
band. Yet he did alter her character — a little. There 
was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and 
odours of life, a social pressure that would have her 
think conjugally. 

“So with him,” she continued. “There are heaps of 
things in him — more especially things that he does — 
that will always be hidden from me. He has all those 
public qualities which you so despise and which enable 
all this — ” She waved her hand at the landscape, 
which confirmed anything. “ If Wilcoxes had n’t worked 
and died in England for thousands of years, you and I 
could n’t sit here without having our throats cut. There 


213 


Margaret Tells Helen 

would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people 
about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No — perhaps 
not even that. Without their spirit life might never 
have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I 
refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who 

guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me ’ ’ 

“And tome, and to all women. So one kissed Paul.” 
“That’s brutal,” said Margaret. “Mine is an ab- 
solutely different case. I ’ve thought things out. ” 

“It makes no difference thinking things out. They 
come to the same. ” 

“Rubbish!” 

There was a long silence, during which the tide re- 
turned into Poole Harbour. “One would lose some- 
thing,” murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The 
water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and 
the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its im- 
mense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. 
Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour 
against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over 
the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to 
triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throb- 
bing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the 
mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with con- 
trary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. 
What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexi- 
ties, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she 
belong to those who have moulded her and made her 
feared by other lands, or to those who have added 
nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen 
the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, 
sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world’s fleet 
accompanying her towards eternity? 


CHAPTER XX 


An Evening on the Parade 

Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that 
takes place in the world’s waters, when Love, who seems 
so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern 
beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact 
deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is 
really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new 
generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who 
holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love 
cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend an- 
other’s infinity; he is conscious only of his own — flying 
sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet 
plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. 
He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and 
be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be 
handed with admiration round the assembly of the 
gods. “ Men did produce this, ” they will say, and, say- 
ing, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile — 
what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Pro- 
perty and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family 
Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and 
refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, 
gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are 
214 


215 


An Evening on the Parade 

aroused — cold brood — and creep out of their holes. 
They do what they can; they tidy up Property and 
Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half- 
guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers 
creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man 
and woman together in Matrimony. 

Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not 
irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady 
nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the 
grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive 
about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant 
note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must 
now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage 
romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An 
acquaintance had become a lover, might become a hus- 
band, but would retain all that she had noted in the 
acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation 
rather than reveal a new one. 

In this spirit she promised to marry him. 

He was in Swanage on the morrow, bearing the 
engagement ring. They greeted one another with a 
hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry 
dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the 
principal hotel ; he was one of those men who know the 
principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked 
Margaret if she would n’t care for a turn on the Parade. 
She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it 
would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her 
hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the 
article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was 
different ; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one 
thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. 

For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: 


216 


Howards End 


“ Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It 
can’t be ten days ago.” 

“Yes,” he said, laughing. “And you and your sister 
were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah 
well!” 

“I little thought then, certainly. Did you?” 

“I don’t know about that; I should n’t like to say. ” 

“Why, was it earlier?” she cried. “Did you think 
of me this way earlier ! How extraordinarily interesting, 
Henry! Tell me.” 

But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he 
could not have told, for his mental states became ob- 
scure as soon as he had passed through them. He mis- 
liked the very word “interesting,” connoting it with 
wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts 
were enough for him. 

“ I did n’t think of it, ” she pursued. “ No ; when you 
spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically 
the first. It was all so different from what it ’s supposed 
to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is — how 
shall I put it? — a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; 
it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really 
is a proposal ” 

“By the way ” 

“ — a suggestion, a seed,” she concluded; and the 
thought flew away into darkness. 

“I was thinking, if you did n’t mind, that we ought to 
spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so 
much to settle.” 

“I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did 
you get on with Tibby ? ” 

“With your brother?” 

“Yes, during cigarettes.” 


217 


An Evening on the Parade 

“Oh, very well.” 

“I am so glad,” she answered, a little surprised. 
“What did you talk about? Me, presumably.” 

“About Greece too.” 

“Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby ’s only 
a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a 
little. Well done.” 

“I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm 
near Calamata. ” 

“What a delightful thing to have shares in ! Can’t we 
go there for our honeymoon?” 

“What to do?” 

“To eat the currants. And isn’t there marvellous 
scenery?” 

“ Moderately, but it ’s not the kind of place one could 
possibly go to with a lady.” 

“Why not?” 

“No hotels.” 

“Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that 
Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, 
with our luggage on our backs?” 

“I wasn’t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will 
never do such a thing again. ” 

She said more gravely: “You have n’t found time for 
a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?” 

“No.” 

“ Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should 
be friends.” 

“Your sister and I have always hit it off,” he said 
negligently. “But we ’re drifting away from our busi- 
ness. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that 
Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill.” 

“Dolly’s uncle. ” 


218 


Howards End 


“Exactly. The girl’s madly in love with him. A 
very good sort of fellow, but he demands — and rightly — 
a suitable provision with her. And in the second place, 
you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before 
leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. 
You see, he has an increasing family and increasing 
expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just 
now, though capable of development.” 

“Poor fellow!” murmured Margaret, looking out to 
sea, and not understanding. 

“Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will 
have Howards End; but am I anxious, in my own 
happiness, not to be unjust to others.” 

“Of course not,” she began, and then gave a little 
cry. “You mean money. How stupid I am! Of 
course not!” 

Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. “Yes. 
Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined 
to be just to all — just to you, just to them. I am 
determined that my children shall have no case against 
me.” 

“Be generous to them,” she said sharply. “Bother 
justice!” 

“I am determined — and have already written to 
Charles to that effect ” 

“But how much have you got?” 

“What?” 

“How much have you a year? I ’ve six hundred. ” 

“My income?” 

“Yes. We must begin with how much you have, 
before we can settle how much you can give Charles. 
Justice, and even generosity, depend on that.” 

“I must say you ’re a downright young woman,” he 


An Evening on the Parade 219 

observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. “What 
a question to spring on a fellow!” 

“Don’t you know your income? Or don’t you want 
to tell it me?” 

H J >> 

“That ’s all right” — now she patted him — “don’t tell 
me. I don’t want to know. I can do the sum just as 
well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. 
How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to 
Charles, how many to Paul?” 

“ The fact is, my dear, I had n’t any intention of 
bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you 
know that — well, that something must be done for the 
others, and you ’ve understood me perfectly, so let’ s 
pass on to the next point.” 

“Yes, we’ve settled that,” said Margaret, undis- 
turbed by his strategic blunderings. “Go ahead; give 
away all you can, bearing in mind that I ’ve a clear six 
hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money 
about one.” 

“We ’ve none too much, I assure you; you ’re marry- 
ing a poor man. ” 

“ Helen would n’t agree with me here, ” she continued. 
“Helen daren’t slang the rich, being rich herself, but 
she would like to. There ’s an odd notion, that I 
have n’t yet got hold of, running about at the back of 
her brain, that poverty is somehow ‘real.’ She dislikes 
all organisation, and probably confuses wealth with 
the technique cf wealth. Sovereigns in a stocking 
would n’t bother her; cheques do. Helen is too relent- 
less. One can’t deal in her high-handed manner with 
the world.” 

“There ’s this other point, and then I must go back to 


220 


Howards End 


my hotel and write some letters. What ’s to be done 
now about the house in Ducie Street?” 

“Keep it on — at least, it depends. When do you 
want to marry me?” 

She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths, 
who were also taking the evening air, overheard her. 
“Getting a bit hot, eh?” said one. Mr. Wilcox turned 
on them, and said sharply, “I say!” There was silence. 
“Take care I don’t report you to the police.” They 
moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their 
time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated 
by peals of ungovernable laughter. 

Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into 
it, he said : “ Evie will probably be married in September. 
We could scarcely think of anything before then.” 

“The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not 
supposed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer.” 

“How about September for us too?” he asked, rather 
dryly. 

“Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in 
September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and 
Tibby into it? That ’s rather an idea. They are so 
unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by 
judicious management. Look here — yes. We ’ll do 
that. And we ourselves could live at Howards End or 
Shropshire. ” 

He blew out his cheeks. “Heavens! how you women 
do fly round! My head ’s in a whirl. Point by point, 
Margaret. Howards End ’s impossible. I let it to 
Hamar Bryce on a three years’ agreement last March. 
Don’t you remember? Oniton. Well, that is much, 
much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be 
able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, 


221 


An Evening on the Parade 

but we must have a house within easy reach of Town. 
Only Ducie Street has huge drawbacks. There ’s a 
mews behind. ” 

Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first 
she had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When 
she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not 
consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox 
manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision 
that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in 
Ducie Street he remembered the mews; when he tried to 
let he forgot it; and if any one had remarked that the 
mews must be either there or not, he would have felt 
annoyed, and afterwards have found some opportunity 
of stigmatising the speaker as academic. So does my 
grocer stigmatise me when I complain of the quality 
of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they 
are the best sultanas, and how can I expect the best 
sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the 
business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to 
it, considering all that the business mind has done for 
England. 

“Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious 
nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable 
little den. The house opposite has been taken by 
operatic people. Ducie Street ’s going down, it ’s my 
private opinion. ” 

“How sad! It’s only a few years since they built 
those pretty houses. ” 

“Shows things are moving. Good for trade.” 

“I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epi- 
tome of us at our worst — eternal formlessness; all the 
qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away — 
streaming, streaming for ever. That ’s why I dread it so. 


222 


Howards End 


I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea ” 

“High tide, yes.” 

“Hoy toid” — from the promenading youths. 

“And these are the men to whom we give the vote,” 
observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were 
also the men to whom he gave work as clerks — work 
that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. 
“However, they have their own lives and interests. 
Let ’s get on.” 

He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back 
to The Bays. The business was over. His hotel was 
in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her 
his letters would be late for the post. She implored 
him not to come, but he was obdurate. 

“A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in 
alone!” 

“But I always do go about alone. Considering I ’ve 
walked over the Apennines, it ’s common sense. You 
will make me so angry. I don’t the least take it as a 
compliment. ” 

He laughed, and lit a cigar. “It is n’t meant as a 
compliment, my dear. I just won’t have you going 
about in the dark. Such people about too ! It ’s 
dangerous. ” 

“Can’t I look after myself? I do wish ” 

“Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.” 

A younger woman might have resented his masterly 
ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of life to make a 
fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he was 
a fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might 
tread, but whom the snows made nightly virginal. 
Disdaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, 
garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much 


An Evening on the Parade 223 

as she had misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for 
weakness. He supposed her “as clever as they make 
’em, ” but no more, not realising that she was penetrating 
to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she 
found there. 

And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the 
whole of life, their happiness had been assured. 

They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the 
road after it were well lighted, but it was darker in Aunt 
Juley’s garden. As they were going up by the side-paths, 
through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in 
front, said “Margaret” rather huskily, turned, dropped 
his cigar, and took her in his arms. 

She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered 
herself at once, and kissed with genuine love the lips 
that were pressed against her own. It was their first 
kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door 
and rang the bell for her but disappeared into the night 
before the maid answered it. On looking back, the 
incident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing 
in their previous conversation had heralded it, and, 
worse still, no tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot 
lead up to passion he can at all events lead down from it, 
and she had hoped, after her complaisance, for some 
interchange of gentle words. But he had hurried away 
as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of 
Helen and Paul. 


CHAPTER XXI 


An Interlude 

Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved 
the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head, though 
bloody, was unsubdued, and her chirrupings began to 
mingle with his retreating thunder. 

“You ’ve waked the baby. I knew you would. 
(Rum-ti-foo, Rackety- tackety-Tompkin !) I ’m not re- 
sponsible for what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody 
else or anything, so there !” 

“Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my 
sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the 
motor day after day?” 

“Charles, that reminds me of some poem. ” 

“Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very 
different music presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly 
got us on toast.” 

“I could simply scratch that woman’s eyes out, and 
to say it ’s my fault is most unfair. ” 

“It ’s your fault, and five months ago you admitted 
it.” 

“I did n’t.” 

“You did.” 

“Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!” exclaimed 
Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child. 

224 


An Interlude 


225 


“ It *s all very well to turn the conversation, but father 
would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie 
was there to make him comfortable. But you must 
needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill’s too old.” 

“Of course, if you’re going to be rude to Uncle 
Percy ” 

“Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards 
End, and, thanks to you, she ’s got it. ” 

“ I call the way you twist things round and make them 
hang together most unfair. You couldn’t have been 
nastier if you ’d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?” 

“We ’re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. 
I shall answer the pater ’s letter civilly. He ’s evidently 
anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to 
forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they ’re on 
their best behaviour — Dolly, are you listening? — we ’ll 
behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs 
or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him, 
or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend 
to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother’s 
place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say 
when the news reaches him.” 

The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles’s 
garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deck- 
chairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from 
its garage across the lawn. A short-f rocked edition of 
Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator 
edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. 
Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, 
so that they may inherit the earth. 


CHAPTER XXII 

Two Letters 

Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on 
the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able 
to help him to the building of/ the rainbow bridge that 
should connect the prose in us with the passion) With- 
out it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half 
beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into 
a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest 
curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. 
Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of 
these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, 
and he and his friends shall find easy-going. 

It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox’s soul. 
From boyhood he had neglected them. “I am not a 
fellow who bothers about my own inside.” Outwardly 
he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had 
reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by 
an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, 
or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that 
bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when 
held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The 
words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to 
other respectable men were the words that had once 
226 


Two Letters 


227 


kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into 
a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as 
the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, 
but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Ama- 
bat , amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret 
hoped to help him. 

It did not seem so difficult She need trouble him 
with no gift of her own. She would only point out the 
salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul 
of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of 
her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, 
and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen 
at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only 
connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the 
isolation that is life to either, will die. 

Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not 
take the form of a good “talking.” By quiet indica- 
tions the bridge would be built and span their lives with 
beauty. 

But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry 
for which she was never prepared, however much she 
reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did 
not notice things, and there was no more to be said. 
He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, 
or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; 
he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in 
the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, 
the collisions, the illimitable views. Once — on another 
occasion — she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, 
but replied with a laugh: “My motto is Concentrate. 
I ’ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that 
sort of thing. ” “It is n’t frittering away the strength, ” 
she protested. “It’s enlarging the space in which 


228 


Howards End 


you may be strong.” He answered: “You ’re a clever 
little woman, but my motto ’s Concentrate.” And this 
morning he concentrated with a vengeance. 

They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the 
daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path 
was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, 
who had been ominously quiet since the affair was 
settled. “Here we all are!” she cried, and took him 
by one hand, retaining her sister’s in the other. 

“Here we are. Good-morning, Helen.” 

Helen replied, “Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox.” 

“ Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, 
cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad 
moustache, but the back of his head was young.” 

“I have had a letter too. Not a nice one — I want to 
talk it over with you”; for Leonard Bast was nothing 
to him now that she had given him her word; the 
triangle of sex was broken for ever. 

“Thanks to your hint, he’s clearing out of the 
Porphyrion. ” 

“Not a bad business that Porphyrion,” he said ab- 
sently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. 

“Not a bad — ” she exclaimed, dropping his hand. 
“Surely, on Chelsea Embankment ” 

“Here’s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. 
Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; 
we manage to grow flowers in England, don’t we?” 

“Not a bad business?” 

“No. My letter’s about Howards End. Bryce has 
been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it. I am far 
from sure that I shall give him permission. There was 
no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting 
is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I 


Two Letters 


229 


consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morn- 
ing, Schlegel. Don’t you think that ’s better than 
subletting?” 

Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered 
her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. 
Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must 
have yearned all through the centuries for just such a 
watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. 
The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth 
steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up 
against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. 

“When there is a sublet I find that damage ” 

“Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don’t 
feel easy — might I just bother you, Henry?” 

Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked 
her a little sharply what she wanted. 

“ You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was 
a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He 
writes this morning that he ’s taken our advice, and now 
you say it ’s not a bad concern.” 

“A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, 
without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, 
and I ’ve no pity for him. ” 

“He has not done that. He ’s going into a bank in 
Camden Town, he says. The salary •’s much lower, but 
he hopes to manage — a branch of Dempster’s Bank. 
Is that all right?” 

“ Dempster ! My goodness me, yes. ” 

“More right than the Porphyrion?” 

“Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses — safer.” 

“ Very many thanks. I ’m sorry — if you sublet ? ” 

“If he sublets, I shan’t have the same control. In 
theory there should be no more damage done at Howards 


230 


Howards End 


End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for 
which no money can compensate. For instance, I 
should n’t want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs — 
Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. 
It ’s pretty in its way. We ’ll motor down and have 
lunch with Charles.” 

“I should enjoy that,” said Margaret bravely. 

“What about next Wednesday?” 

“Wednesday? No, I couldn’t well do that. Aunt 
Juley expects us to stop here another week at least. ” 

“But you can give that up now. ” 

“Er — no,” said Margaret, after a moment’s thought. 

“ Oh, that ’ll be all right. I ’ll speak to her. ” 

“This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on 
it year after year. She turns the house upside down for 
us; she invites our special friends — she scarcely knows 
Frieda, and we can’t leave her on her hands. I missed 
one day, and she would be so hurt if I did n’t stay the 
full ten.” 

“But I ’ll say a word to her. Don’t you bother.” 

“Henry, I won’t go. Don’t bully me.” 

“You want to see the house, though?” 

“Very much — I ’ve heard so much about it, one way 
or the other. Are n’t there pigs’ teeth in the wych-elm? ” 

“Pigs' teeth?" 

“And you chew the bark for toothache.” 

“ What a rum notion ! Of course not ! ” 

“Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. 
There are still a great number of sacred trees in Eng- 
land, it seems. ” 

But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice 
could be heard in the distance ; to be intercepted himself 
by Helen. 


Two Letters 


231 

“Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion — ” she began, 
and went scarlet all over her face. 

“It ’s all right,” called Margaret, catching them up. 
“Dempster’s Bank’s better.” 

“But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and 
would smash before Christmas.” 

“ Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had 
to take rotten policies. Lately it came in — safe as houses 
now.” 

“ In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it. ” 

“No, the fellow need n’t. ” 

“ — and needn’t have started life elsewhere at a 
greatly reduced salary.” 

“He only says ‘reduced,’ ” corrected Margaret, seeing 
trouble ahead. 

“With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. 
I consider it a deplorable misfortune. ” 

Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, 
was going steadily on, but the last remark made him 
say: “What? What’s that? Do you mean that I ’m 
responsible?” 

“You ’re ridiculous, Helen.” 

“You seem to think — ” He looked at his watch. 
“Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You 
seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a 
delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed 
stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was 
bound to say, ‘ I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff 
Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the 
only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am 
trying.’ My dear Helen ” 

“ Is that your point? A man who had little money has 
less — that ’s mine. ” 


232 


Howards End 


“ I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day’s 
work. It ’s part of the battle of life. ” 

“A man who had little money,” she repeated, “has 
less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I do not 
consider ‘the battle of life’ a happy expression.” 

“ Oh come, come ! ” he protested pleasantly. “You ’re 
not to blame. No one ’s to blame. ” 

“Is no one to blame for anything?” 

“I wouldn’t say that, but you ’re taking it far too 
seriously. Who is this fellow?” 

“We have told you about the fellow twice already,” 
said Helen. “You have even met the fellow. He is very 
poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is 
capable of better things. We — we, the upper classes — 
thought we would help him from the height of our 
superior knowledge — and here’s the result!” 

He raised his finger. “Now, a word of advice.” 

“I require no more advice.” 

“A word of advice. Don’t take up that sentimental 
attitude over the poor. See that she does n’t, Margaret. 
The poor are poor, and one ’s sorry for them, but there 
it is. As civilisation moves forward, the 'shoe is bound 
to pinch in places, and it ’s absurd to pretend that any 
one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor 
my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the 
directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk’s 
loss of salary. It ’s just the shoe pinching — no one can 
help it; and it might easily have been worse. ” 

Helen quivered with indignation. 

“By all means subscribe to charities — subscribe to 
them largely — but don’t get carried away by absurd 
schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind 
the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no 


Two Letters 


233 


Social Question — except for a few journalists who try 
to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich 
and poor, as there always have been and always will be. 

Point me out a time when men have been equal ” 

“I did n’t say ” 

“Point me out a time when desire for equality has 
made them happier. No, no. You can’t. There 
always have been rich and poor. I ’m no fatalist. 
Heaven forbid ! But our civilisation is moulded by great 
impersonal forces” (his voice grew complacent; it 
always did when he eliminated the personal), “and 
there always will be rich and poor. You can’t deny it” 
(and now it was a respectful voice) — “and you can’t 
deny that, in spite of all, the tendency of civilisation 
has on the whole been upward. ” 

“Owing to God, I suppose,” flashed Helen. 

He stared at her. 

. “You grab the dollars. God does the rest.” 

It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to 
talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal 
to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. 
Munt. He thought, “ She rather reminds me of Dolly. ” 
Helen looked out at the sea. 

“Don’t ever discuss political economy with Henry,” 
advised her sister. “ It ’ll only end in a cry. ” 

“But he must be one of those men who have reconciled 
science with religion,” said Helen slowly. “I don’t 
like those men. They are scientific themselves, and 
talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the sala- 
ries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all 
who may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that 
somehow good — it is always that sloppy ‘somehow’ — 
will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the 


234 


Howards End 


Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. 
Basts of to-day are in pain. ” 

“He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in 
theory!” 

“But oh, Meg, what a theory!” 

“Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?” 

“Because I ’m an old maid,” said Helen, biting her 
lip. “I can’t think why I go on like this myself. ” She 
shook off her sister’s hand and went into the house. 
Margaret, distressed at the day’s beginning, followed the 
Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that 
Helen’s nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast 
business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might 
at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry 
would notice. Henry must be removed. 

“Margaret!” her aunt called. “Magsy! It isn’t 
true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go 
away early next week?” 

“Not ‘want,’ ” was Margaret’s prompt reply; “but 
there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the 
Charles’s.” 

“But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, 
or even the Lulworth?” said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. 
“Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, “ Good ! I did the break- 
ing of the ice. ” 

A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand 
on either shoulder, and looked deeply into the black, 
bright eyes. What was behind their competent stare? 
She knew, but was not disquieted. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Margaret Sees the Estate 

Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and 
the evening before she left Swanage she gave her sister 
a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for disap- 
proving of the engagement, but for throwing over her 
disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally 
frank. “Yes,” she said, with the air of one looking 
inwards, “there is a mystery. I can’t help it. It’s 
not my fault. It’s the way life has been made.” 
Helen in those days was over-interested in the subcon- 
scious self. She exaggerated the Punch and Judy 
aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom 
an invisible showman twitches into love and war. Mar- 
garet pointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, would 
eliminate the personal. Helen was silent for a minute, 
and then burst into a queer speech, which cleared the 
air. “Go on and marry him. I think you ’re splendid; 
and if anyone can pull it off, you will.” Margaret 
denied that there was anything to “pull off,” but she 
continued: “Yes, there is, and I was n’t up to it with 
Paul. I can do only what ’s easy. I can only entice 
and be enticed. I can’t, and won’t, attempt difficult 
relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who’s 

235 


236 


Howards End 


strong enough to boss me or whom I ’m strong enough to 
boss. So I shan’t ever marry, for there are n’t such men. 
And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I shall 
certainly run away from him before you can say ‘Jack 
Robinson.’ There! Because I ’m uneducated. But 
you, you ’re different; you ’re a heroine.” 

“Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor 
Henry as all that?” 

“You mean to keep proportion, and that’s heroic, 
it ’s Greek, and I don’t see why it should n’t succeed with 
you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don’t 
ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward 
I ’m going my own way. I mean to be thorough, be- 
cause thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your 
husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no con- 
cessions to Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he 
must lump me. I mean to love you more than ever. 
Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real, 
because it is purely spiritual. There’s no veil of mys- 
tery over us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as 
one touches the body. The popular view is, as usual, 
exactly the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible 
things — money, husbands, house-hunting. But Heaven 
will work of itself.” 

Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, 
and answered, “Perhaps.” All vistas close in the un- 
seen — no one doubts it — but Helen closed them rather 
too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one 
was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps 
Margaret grew too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry 
was weaning her from them, but she felt that there was 
something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily 
shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that 


237 


Margaret Sees the Estate 

this life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that 
it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit the 
truth. “Yes, I see, dear; it ’s about half-way between, ” 
Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth, 
being alive, was not half-way between anything. It was 
only to be found by continuous excursions into either 
realm, and though proportion is the final secret, to 
espouse it at the outset is to insure sterility. 

Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have 
talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to 
do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might 
abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she 
always be civil to him in company? “I definitely dislike 
him, but I’ll do what I can,” promised Helen. “Do 
what you can with my friends in return.” 

This conversation made Margaret easier. Their 
inner life was so safe that they could bargain over 
externals in a way that would have been incredible to 
Aunt Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There 
are moments when the inner life actually “pays,” when 
years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, 
are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still 
rare in the West; that they come at all promises a 
fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand 
her sister, was assured against estrangement, and re- 
turned to London with a more peaceful mind. 

The following morning, at eleven o’clock, she pre- 
sented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West 
African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, 
for Henry had implied his business rather than described 
it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one asso- 
ciates with Africa itself had hitherto brooded over the 
main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the 


Howards End 


238 

office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary 
surface scum of ledgers and polished counters and brass 
bars that began and stopped for no possible reason, of 
electric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of little 
rabbit-hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. 
And even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she 
found only the ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and 
though the map over the fireplace did depict a helping 
of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another 
map hung opposite, on which the whole continent ap- 
peared, looking like a whale marked out for a blubber, 
and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry’s voice 
came through it, dictating a ‘ ‘ strong ’ ’ letter. She might 
have been at the Porphyrion, or Dempster’s Bank, 
or her own wine-merchant’s. Everything seems just 
alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the 
Imperial side of the company rather than its West 
African, and Imperialism always had been one of her 
difficulties. 

“One minute!” called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her 
name. He touched a bell, the effect of which was to 
produce Charles. 

Charles had written his father an adequate letter — 
more adequate than Evie’s, through which a girlish 
indignation throbbed. And he greeted his future step- 
mother with propriety. 

“ I hope that my wife — how do you do? — will give you 
a decent lunch,” was his opening. “I left instructions, 
but we live in a rough-and-ready way. She expects you 
back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards 
End. I wonder what you ’ll think of the place. I 
would n’t touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down ! 
It ’s a measly little place. ” 


Margaret Sees the Estate 239 

“I shall enjoy seeing it,” said Margaret, feeling, tor 
the first time, shy. 

“You ’ll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad 
last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman 
to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful 
mess. It ’s unbelievable. He was n’t in the house a 
month.” 

“I ’ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,” 
called Henry from the inner chamber. 

“Why did he go so suddenly?” 

“Invalid type; could n’t sleep.” 

“Poor fellow!” 

“Poor fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. 
“He had the impudence to put up notice-boards with- 
out as much as saying with your leave or by your leave. 
Charles flung them down. ” 

“Yes, I flung them down,” said Charles modestly. 

“I ’ve sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp 
one, too. He, and he in person, is responsible for the 
upkeep of that house for the next three years. ” 

“The keys are at the farm; we wouldn’t have the 
keys.” 

“Quite right.” 

“Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, for- 
tunately. 

“What ’s Mr. Bryce like?” asked Margaret. 

But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who 
had no right to sublet; to have defined him further was a 
waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted pro- 
fusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter 
came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. 
“ Now we ’ll be off, ” said he. 

A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, 


240 


Howards End 


awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and 
in a moment the offices of the Imperial and West African 
Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an im- 
pressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being 
grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps 
Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did 
not a gentleman once motor so quickly through West- 
moreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can 
be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate 
structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hert- 
fordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis 
of river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton 
were with us again to write a new edition of his incom- 
parable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertford- 
shire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated 
by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and 
averted from their fate towards the Northern flats, their 
leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea. 
No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; 
but they would be real nymphs. 

The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had 
hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter 
traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, 
a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children 
on the brain. 

“They’re all right,” said Mr. Wilcox. “They’ll 
learn — like the swallows and the telegraph-wires.” 

“Yes, but, while they ’re learning ” 

“The motor’s come to stay,” he answered. “One 
must get about. There ’s a pretty church — oh, you 
are n’t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries 
you — right outward at the scenery.” 

She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged 


Margaret Sees the Estate 241 

like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had 
arrived. 

Charles’s house on the left; on the right the swelling 
forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a 
neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the 
stream of residences that was thickening up towards 
Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and 
beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay 
buried. She hated war and liked soldiers — it was one of 
her amiable inconsistencies. 

But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing 
at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops 
of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait 
in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready 
lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. 
Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly 
described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law 
gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting 
all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh 
at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret, too, and Margaret, 
roused from a grave meditation, was pleased, and 
chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised, and 
eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children 
came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off 
better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into 
fits of laughter by talking sense to him. “Kiss 
them now, and come away,” said Mr. Wilcox. She 
came, but refused to kiss them ; it was such hard luck 
on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered 
Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was 
obdurate. 

By this time it was raining steadily. The car came 
round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of 

16 


242 


Howards End 


space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane 
opened the door of the car. 

“What ’s happened?” asked Margaret. 

“What do you suppose?” said Henry. 

A little porch was close up against her face. 

“Are we there already?” 

“We are.” 

“ Well, I never ! In years ago it seemed so far away. ” 

Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, 
and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She 
was about to open it, when Henry said: “That ’s no 
good; it ’s locked. Who ’s got the key?” 

As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the 
farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had 
left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from 
the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he 
said rather crossly: “Margaret, you wait in the dry. 
I ’ll go down for the key. It is n’t a hundred yards. ” 

“May n’t I come too?” 

“No; I shall be back before I ’m gone. ” 

Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain 
had risen. For the second time that day she saw the 
appearance of the earth. 

There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once 
described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that 
would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision 
now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell- 
hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies 
stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions 
over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She 
could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the 
celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered 
the porch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil; 


243 


Margaret Sees the Estate 

she had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked 
so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of 
the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. 
Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already 
decided that the place was beautiful. 

“Naughty cow! Go away!” cried Margaret to the 
cow, but without indignation. 

Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, 
and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house- 
agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles 
had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles 
in another world — where one did have interviews. 
How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles 
dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and 
gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and — 
no connection at all between them! Margaret smiled. 
Would that her own fancies were as clear-cut! Would 
that she could deal as high-handedly with the world! 
Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. 
It opened. The house was not locked up at all. 

She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He 
felt strongly about property, and might prefer to show 
her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her 
to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. 
So she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the 
door behind. 

Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on 
the hall- windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed 
boards. The civilisation of luggage had been here for a 
month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing- 
room — right and left — were guessed only by their wall- 
papers. They were just rooms where one could shelter 
from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great 


244 


Howards End 


beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly, 
but the drawing-room’s was match-boarded — because the 
facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Drawing- 
room, dining-room, and hall — how petty the names 
sounded ! Here were simply three rooms where children 
could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and 
they were beautiful. 

Then she opened one of the doors opposite — there were 
two — and exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It was 
the servants’ part, though she scarcely realised that: 
just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The 
garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and 
plums. Farther on were hints of the meadow and a 
black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful. 

Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the 
sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her. 
She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten 
times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand 
square miles are not practically the same as heaven. 
The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was 
laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howards 
End to its kitchen and heard the rain run this way 
and that where the watershed of the roof divided it. 

Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinising half Wessex 
from the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying : “You 
will have to lose something.” She was not so sure. 
For instance she would double her kingdom by opening 
the door that concealed the stairs. 

Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; 
of her father; of the two supreme nations, streams of 
whose life warmed her blood, but, mingling, had cooled 
her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did 
so the house reverberated. 


Margaret Sees the Estate 245 

“Is that you, Henry?” she called. 

There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. 

“Henry, have you got in?” 

But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at 
first, then loudly, martially. It dominated the rain. 

It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, 
that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the 
stairs. A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A 
woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, 
with face impassive, with lips that parted and said 
dryly : 

“ Oh ! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox. ” 

Margaret stammered : “I — Mrs. Wilcox — I?” 

“In fancy, of course — in fancy. You had her way 
of walking. Good-day.” And the old woman passed 
out into the rain. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

Howards End Idealised 

“It gave her quite a turn,” said Mr. Wilcox, when re- 
tailing the incident to Dolly at tea-time. “ None of you 
girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from 
me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery — she fright- 
ened you, did n’t she, Margaret? There you stood 
clutching a bunch of weeds. She might have said some- 
thing, instead of coming down the stairs with that 
alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough 
to make the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for 
being a character; some old maids do.” He lit a 
cigarette. “It is their last resource. Heaven knows 
what she was doing in the place; but that’s Bryce’s 
business, not mine.” 

“ I was n’t as foolish as you suggest, ” said Margaret. 
“She only startled me, for the house had been silent so 
long.” 

“Did you take her for a spook?” asked Dolly, for 
whom “spooks’” and “going to church” summarised 
the unseen. 

“Not exactly.” 

“She really did frighten you,” said Henry, who was 
far from discouraging timidity in females. “Poor 
246 


Howards End Idealised 


247 

Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated classes 
are so stupid.” 

“ Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?” Margaret asked, 
and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of 
Dolly’s drawing-room. 

“She ’s just one of the crew at the farm. People like 
that always assume things. She assumed you ’d know 
who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the 
front lobby, and assumed that you ’d seen them as you 
came in, that you ’d lock up the house when you ’d done, 
and would bring them on down to her. And there was 
her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack 
of education makes people very casual. Hilton was 
full of women like Miss Avery once.” 

“I should n’t have disliked it, perhaps.” 

“Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present,” said 
Dolly. 

Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, 
Margaret was destined to learn a good deal. 

“But Charles said I must try not to mind, because 
she had known his grandmother.” 

“As usual, you ’ve got the story wrong, my good 
Dorothea.” 

“I meant great-grandmother — the one who left Mrs. 
Wilcox the house. Were n’t both of them and Miss 
Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?” 

Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His 
attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude 
to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her 
by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic 
past. Dolly was — for the following reason. 

“Then hadn’t Mrs. Wilcox a brother — or was it an 
uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss 


248 


Howards End 


Avery, she said * No.’ Just imagine, if she ’d said ‘Yes/ 
she would have been Charles’s aunt. (Oh, I say, that ’s 
rather good ! ‘ Charlie’s Aunt’ ! I must chaff him about 

that this evening.) And the man went out and was 
killed. Yes, I ’m certain I ’ve got it right now. Tom 
Howard — he was the last of them. ” 

“I believe so,” said Mr. Wilcox negligently. 

“I say! Howards End — Howards Ended!” cried 
Dolly. “I’m rather on the spot this evening, eh? ” 

“I wish you ’d ask whether Crane’s ended.” 

“Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?” 

“Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go. — 
Dolly ’s a good little woman, ” he continued, “but a little 
of her goes a long way. I could n’t live near her if you 
paid me.” 

Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front 
to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the 
possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial 
spirit, and were always making for some spot where the 
white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of 
course, Howards End was impossible, so long as the 
younger couple were established in Hilton. His ob- 
jections to the house were plain as daylight now. 

Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the 
garage, where their car had been trickling muddy water 
over Charles’s. The downpour had surely penetrated 
the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless civili- 
sation. “Curious mounds,” said Henry, “but in with 
you now; another time.” He had to be up in London 
by seven — if possible, by six- thirty. Once more she 
lost the sense of space; once more trees, houses, people, 
animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, 
and she was at Wickham Place. 


Howards End Idealised 


249 


Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which 
had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. 
She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the 
hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. 
She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of 
all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End, 
she attempted to realise England. She failed — visions 
do not come when we try, though they may come 
through trying. But an unexpected love of the island 
awoke in her, connecting on this side with the joys of the 
flesh, on that with the inconceivable. Helen and her 
father had known this love, poor Leonard Bast was 
groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret 
till this afternoon. It had certainly come through the 
house and old Miss Avery. Through them : the notion 
of “through” persisted; her mind trembled towards a 
conclusion which only the unwise have put into words. 
Then, veering back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy 
bricks, flowering plum-trees, and all the tangible joys 
of spring. 

Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her 
over his property, and had explained to her the use and 
dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the 
history of the little estate. “It is so unlucky,” ran the 
monologue, “that money was n’t put into it about fifty 
years ago. Then it had four — five — times the land — 
thirty acres at least. One could have made something 
out of it then — a small park, or at all events shrubberies, 
and rebuilt the house farther away from the road. 
What ’s the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing 
but the meadow left, and even that was heavily mort- 
gaged when I first had to do with things— yes, and the 
house too. Oh, it was no joke. ’ ’ She saw two women as 


250 


Howards End 


he spoke, one old, the other young, watching their 
inheritance melt away. She saw them greet him as a 
deliverer. “Mismanagement did it — besides, the days 
for small farms are over. It does n’t pay — except with 
intensive cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land 
— ah! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that 
nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see 
(they were standing at an upper window, the only one 
which faced west) belongs to the people at the Park — 
they made their pile over copper — good chaps. Avery’s 
Farm, Sishe’s — what they call the Common, where you 
see that ruined oak — one after the other fell in, and so 
did this, as near as is no matter. ” But Henry had saved 
it; without fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved 
it, and she loved him for the deed. “When I had more 
control I did what I could — sold off the two and a half 
animals, and the mangy pony, and the . superannuated 
tools ; pulled down the outhouses ; drained ; thinned out I 
don’t know how many guelder-roses and elder- trees; 
and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a 
hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. 
Garage and so on came later. But one could still tell 
it ’s been an old farm. And yet it is n’t the place that 
would fetch one of your artistic crew. ” No, it was n’t; 
and if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew 
would still less; it was English, and the wych-elm that 
she saw from the window was an English tree. No 
report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was 
neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these 
r61es do the English excel. It was a comrade bending 
over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but 
in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a 
dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end 


Howards End Idealised 


251 


evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the 
air. It was a comrade. House and tree transcended 
any similes of sex. Margaret thought of them now, and 
was to think of them through many a windy night and 
London day, but to compare either to man, to woman, 
always dwarfed the vision. Yet they kept within 
limits of the human. Their message was not of eternity, 
but of hope on this side of the grave. As she stood in the 
one, gazing at the other, truer relationship had gleamed. 

Another touch, and the account of her day is finished. 
They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr.- 
Wilcox’s surprise she was right. Teeth, pigs’ teeth, ; 
could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree — just 
the white tips of them showing. “Extraordinary!” 
he cried. “Who told you?” 

“ I heard of it one winter in London, ” was her answer, 
for she, too, avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name. 


CHAPTER XXV 


On the Way to Shropshire 

Evie heard of her father’s engagement when she was in 
for a tennis tournament, and her play went simply to 
pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed 
natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same 
was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it 
was all her fault. “But I never dreamt of such a thing,” 
she grumbled. “ Dad took me to call now and then, and 
made me ask her to Simpson’s. Well, I ’m altogether 
off dad.” It was also an insult to their mother’s mem- 
ory; there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of re- 
turning Mrs. Wilcox’s lace and jewellery “as a protest.” 
Against what it would protest she was not clear; but 
being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed 
to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace. 
Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy should 
pretend to break off their engagement, and then per- 
haps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel, and 
break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this 
point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie 
settled to marry as soon as possible; it was no good 
hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing her. The date 
of her wedding was consequently put forward from 
252 


On the Way to Shropshire 253 

September to August, and in the intoxication of presents 
she recovered much of her good-humour. 

Margaret found that she was expected to figure at 
this function, and to figure largely; it would be such an 
opportunity, said Henry, for her to get to know his set. 
Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills and 
the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington 
Wilcox, had fortunately got back from her tour round 
the world. Henry she loved, but his set promised to be 
another matter. He had not the knack of surrounding 
himself with nice people — indeed, for a man of ability 
and virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate; 
he had no guiding principle beyond a certain preference 
for mediocrity ; he was content to settle one of the great- 
est things in life haphazard, and so, while his invest- 
ments went right, his friends generally went wrong. 
She would be told, “Oh, So-and-so’s a good sort — a 
thundering good sort,” and find, on meeting him, that 
he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real affec- 
tion, she would have understood, for affection explains 
everything. But he seemed without sentiment. The 
“thundering good sort” might at any moment become 
“a fellow for whom I never did have much use, and have 
less now,” and be shaken off cheerily into oblivion. 
Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now 
she never forgot any one for whom she had once cared ; 
she connected, though the connection might be bitter, 
and she hoped that some day Henry would do the same. 

Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She 
had a fancy for something rural, and, besides, no one 
would be in London then, so she left her boxes for a few 
weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly pub- 
lished in the parish church, and for a couple of days the 


254 


Howards End 


little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was 
roused by the clang of our civilisation, and drew up by 
the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton had been 
a discovery of Mr. Wilcox’s — a discovery of which he was 
not altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh 
border, and so difficult of access that he had concluded it 
must be something special. A ruined castle stood in the 
grounds. But having got there, what was one to do? 
The shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and women- 
folk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place 
turned out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, and 
though he never ran down his own property to others, 
he was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to let 
fly. Evie’s marriage was its last appearance in public. 
As soon as a tenant was found, it became a house for 
which he never had had much use, and had less now, and, 
like Howards End, faded into Limbo. 

But on Margaret Oniton was destined to make a last- 
ing impression. She regarded it as her future home, and 
was anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., and, 
if possible, to see something of the local life. It was a 
market-town — as tiny a one as England possesses — and 
had for ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our 
marches against the Celt. In spite of the occasion, in 
spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted her as soon 
as she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington, her 
senses were awake and watching, and though Oniton was 
to prove one of her innumerable false starts, she never 
forgot it, or the things that happened there. 

The London party only numbered eight — the Fussells, 
father and son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs. 
Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox 
and her daughter, and, lastly, the little girl, very smart 


On the Way to Shropshire 255 

and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who 
kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect. 
Dolly was absent — a domestic event detained her at 
Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message; Charles 
was to meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury; 
Helen had refused her invitation; Tibby had never 
answered his. The management was excellent, as was to 
be expected with anything that Henry undertook; one 
was conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the 
background. They were his guests as soon as they reached 
the train; a special label for their luggage; a courier; a 
special lunch ; they had only to look pleasant and, where 
possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her 
own nuptials — presumably under the management of 
Tibby. “Mr. Theobald Schelgel and Miss Helen Schle- 
gel request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon’s company 
on the occasion of the marriage of their sister Margaret.’* 
The formula was incredible, but it must soon be printed 
and sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete 
with Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and pro- 
vide them with sufficient chairs. Her wedding would 
either be ramshackly or bourgeois — she hoped the latter. 
Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that 
was almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those 
of her friends. 

The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not 
the worst background for conversation, and the journey 
passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have exceeded 
the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for 
some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the 
bell for the servant, they identified the colleges as the 
train slipped past Oxford, they caught books or bag- 
purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet there 


256 


Howards End 


was nothing finicking about their politeness — it had the 
public -school touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. 
More battles than Waterloo have been won on our play- 
ing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of which she 
did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the 
Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. “Male and 
female created He them”; the journey to Shrewsbury 
confirmed this questionable statement, and the long 
glass saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfort- 
able, became a forcing-house for the idea of sex. 

At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for 
sight-seeing, and while the others were finishing their tea 
at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over the 
astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not the faithful 
Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her 
late. Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, 
was standing in front of the hotel when they returned. 
It was perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no 
means the last. And then he dived into the coffee-room, 
and she heard him say, “For God’s sake, hurry the 
women up; we shall never be off,” and Albert Fussell re- 
ply, “Not I; I ’ve done my share,” and Colonel Fussell 
opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. 
Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington’s daughter) appeared, 
and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little; 
she had been changing her smart travelling hat for a 
smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, lead- 
ing the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian ladies were 
always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already 
gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but 
there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be 
packed, and five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put 
off at the last moment, because Charles declared them 


On the Way to Shropshire 257 

not necessary. The men presided over everything with 
unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was 
ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge. 

Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. 
Though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, it 
still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing 
the buttresses that force the Severn eastward and make 
it an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sen- 
tinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having 
picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoid- 
ing the greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional 
summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in 
quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours 
altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress 
behind those tossing horizons: the West, as ever, was 
retreating with some secret which may not be worth 
the discovery, but which no practical man will ever 
discover. 

They spoke of Tariff Reform. 

Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies. 
Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been 
stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the 
hospitality with which she had been received, and warn 
the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans. 
“They threaten to cut the painter,” she cried, “and 
where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you ’ll under- 
take to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is 
our last hope.” 

Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, 
and they began to quote from their respective hand- 
books while the motor carried them deep into the hills. 
Curious these were rather than impressive, for their 
outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their 


258 


Howards End 


summits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread 
out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional 
wood, an occasional “forest,” treeless and brown, all 
hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an 
agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had sur- 
mounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them 
with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river- 
girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion 
unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds 
across the peninsula’s neck — the sort of mansion that 
was built all over England in the beginning of the last 
century, while architecture was still an expression of the 
national character. That was the Grange, remarked 
Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake 
on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. “I’m 
sorry,” said he, turning round. “Do you mind getting 
out — by the door on the right. Steady on.” 

“What ’s happened?” asked Mrs. Warrington. 

Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of 
Charles was heard saying: “ Get the women out at once.” 
There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her 
companions were hustled out and received into the 
second car. What had happened? As it started off 
again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed 
wildly at them. 

“What is it?” the ladies cried. 

Charles drove them a hundred yards without speak- 
ing. Then he said: “It’s all right. Your car just 
touched a dog.” 

“But stop!” cried Margaret, horrified. 

“It did n’t hurt him.” 

“ Did n’t really hurt him?” asked Myra. 

“No.” 


On the Way to Shropshire 259 

1 ‘Do please stop!” said Margaret, leaning forward. 
She was standing up in the car, the other occupants 
holding her knees to steady her. “I want to go back, 
please.” 

Charles took no notice. 

“We ’ve left Mr. Fussell behind,” said another; “and 
Angelo, and Crane.” 

“Yes, but no woman.” 

“I expect a little of” — Mrs. Warrington scratched her 
palm — “will be more to the point than one of us!” 

“The insurance company see to that,” remarked 
Charles, “and Albert will do the talking.” 

“I want to go back, though, I say!” repeated Mar- 
garet, getting angry. 

Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with 
refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. 
“The men are there,” chorused the others. “Men will 
see to it.” 

“The men can't see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! 
Charles, I ask you to stop.” 

“Stopping ’s no good,” drawled Charles. 

“Isn’t it?” said Margaret, and jumped straight out 
of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook 
her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. 
“You’ve hurt yourself,” exclaimed Charles, jumping 
after her. 

“Of course I ’ve hurt myself!” she retorted. 

“May I ask what ” 

“There ’s nothing to ask,” said Margaret. ' 

“Your hand ’s bleeding.” 

“I know.” 

“I ’m in for a frightful row from the pater.” 

“You should have thought of that sooner, Charles.” 


260 


Howards End 


Charles had never been in such a position before. It 
was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him, 
and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. 
He recovered himself when the others caught them up: 
their sort he understood. He commanded them to go 
back. 

Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. 

“It’s all right!” he called. “It wasn’t a dog, it 
was a cat.” 

“There!” exclaimed Charles triumphantly. “It’s 
only a rotten cat.” 

“ Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as 
I saw it wasn’t a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the 
girl.” But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why 
should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering 
behind men, men sheltering behind servants — the whole 
system ’s wrong, and she must challenge it. 

“Miss Schlegel! ’Pon my word, you’ve hurt your 
hand.” 

“I’m just going to see,” said Margaret. “Don’t 
you wait, Mr. Fussell.” 

The second motor came round the corner. “It is all 
right, madam,” said Crane in his turn. He had taken to 
calling her madam. 

“What ’s all right? The cat?” 

“Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation 
for it.” 

“She was a very ruda girla,” said Angelo from the 
third motor thoughtfully. 

“Would n’t you have been rude?” 

The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had 
not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased 
her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen 


On the Way to Shropshire 261 

were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of 
assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. 
She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to 
the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the 
lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its 
cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she 
had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey 
from London had been unreal. They had no part with 
the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink, 
and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had 
been killed had lived more deeply than they. 

“Oh, Henry,” she exclaimed, “I have been so 
naughty,” for she had decided to take up this line. “We 
ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I 
would, and look!” She held out her bandaged hand. 
“Your poor Meg went such a flop.” 

Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he 
was standing to welcome his guests in the hall. 

“Thinking it was a dog.” added Mrs. Warrington. 

“Ah, a dog's a companion!” said Colonel Fussell. 
“A dog ’ll remember you.” 

“Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?” 

“Not to speak about; and it ’s my left hand.” 

“Well, hurry up and change.” 

She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then 
turned to his son. 

“Now, Charles, what ’s happened?' 

Charles was absolutely honest. He described what 
he believed to have happened. Albert had flattened 
out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as 
any woman might. She had been got safely into 
the other car, but when it was in motion had leapt 
out again, in spite of all that they could say. After 


262 


Howards End 


walking a little on the road, she had calmed down and 
had said that she was sorry. His father accepted this 
explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had art- 
fully prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well with 
their view of feminine nature. In the smoking-room, 
after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view that Miss 
Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he re- 
membered as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar 
once, how a girl — a handsome girl, too — had jumped 
overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the 
lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox 
agreed it was much more probably nerves in Miss Schle- 
gel’s case. Charles was depressed. That woman had 
a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father 
before she had done with them. He strolled out on to 
the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening 
was exquisite. On three sides of him a little river 
whispered, full of messages from the West; above his 
head the ruins made patterns against the sky. He care- 
fully reviewed their dealings with this family, until he 
fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an 
orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious. 
He had two children to look after, and more coming, and 
day by day they seemed less likely to grow up rich men. 
“ It is all very well,” he reflected, “ the pater’s saying that 
he will be just to all, but one can’t be just indefinitely. 
Money is n’t elastic. What ’s to happen if Evie has a 
family? And, come to that, so may the pater. There 
’ll not be enough to go round, for there ’s none coming 
in, either through Dolly or Percy. It’s damnable!” 
He looked enviously at the Grange, whose windows 
poured light and laughter. First and last, this wedding 
would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling 


On the Way to Shropshire 263 

up and down the garden terrace, and as the syllables 
“Imperialism” were wafted to his ears, he guessed that 
one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him, 
if she too had not had a family to provide for. “Every 
one for himself,” he repeated — a maxim which had 
cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly enough 
among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked his father’s 
ability in business, and so had an ever higher regard for 
money; unless he could inherit plenty, he feared to 
leave his children poor. 

As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace 
and walked into the meadow; he recognised her as Mar- 
garet by the white bandage that gleamed on her arm, and 
put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray him. She 
climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times stooped 
down, as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds abso- 
lutely incredible, but for a moment Charles thought 
that she was in love with him, and had come out to tempt 
him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed 
the strong man’s necessary complement, and having no 
sense of humour, he could not purge himself of the 
thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to his 
father, and his sister’s wedding-guest, kept on her way 
without noticing him, and he admitted that he had 
wronged her on this point. But what was she doing? 
Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and 
catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she 
edged round the keep, she must have got to windward 
and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed, “ Hullo f 
Who ’s that?” 

Charles made no answer. 

“Saxon or Celt?” she continued, laughing in the 
darkness. “But it doesn’t matter. Whichever you 


264 


Howards End 


are, you will have to listen to me. I love this place. I 
love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this 
will be my home. Ah, dear” — she was now moving 
back towards the house — “what a comfort to have 
arrived!” 

“That woman means mischief,” thought Charles, and 
compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her 
indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were 
rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, 
though it whispered more loudly. There had been a 
heavy downpour in the Welsh hills. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A Disclosure 

Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The 
weather promised well, and the outline of the castle 
mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched 
it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the 
rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The 
shadow of the house gathered itself together, and fell 
over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and 
mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the 
mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and 
only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper 
reaches. 

Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said 
that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension 
that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had 
caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down 
from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of 
the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was 
insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal 
joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to 
stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a 
rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The 
rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and 
she found that he was a friend of her father’s, and so 
265 


266 


Howards End 


knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would 
introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, 
Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give 
the word, and he would whip up the county families for 
twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was 
Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she 
doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the 
county families when they did call, she was content. 

Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the 
lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant 
followed them with their bathing-suits. She had meant 
to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the 
day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watch- 
ing their contretemps. In the first place the key of the 
bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the 
riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant 
shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in 
the garden. Then came a difficulty about a spring- 
board, and soon three people were running backwards 
and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter 
orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret 
wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped ; if Tibby 
thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; 
if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. 
But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not 
bathe without their appliances, though the morning 
sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the 
dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body 
after all? Could not the men whom they despised as 
milksops beat them, even on their own ground? 

She thought of the bathing arrangements as they 
should be in her day — no worrying of servants, no ap- 
pliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were dis- 


A Disclosure 


267 


turbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to 
the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She 
called, “Good-morning, dear,” a little sharply. Her 
voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and 
though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into 
the shed, and was seen no more. 

“Miss Wilcox is up — ” the child whispered, and then 
became unintelligible. 

“What ’s that?” 

It sounded like, “ — cut-yoke — sack-back ” 

“I can’t hear.” 

“ — On the bed — tissue-paper ” 

Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and 
that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie’s room. 
All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing 
with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other 
was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they 
laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. 

Margaret screamed a little too, but without con- 
viction. She could not feel that a wedding was so 
funny. Perhaps something was missing in her 
equipment. 

Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, 
we would rag just then!” Then Margaret went down 
to breakfast. 

Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke 
little, and was, in Margaret’s eyes, the only member 
of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She 
could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his 
daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he 
dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally — orders 
that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired 
after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs 


268 


Howards End 


Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down 
there was a moment’s awkwardness, and both ladies rose 
to vacate their places. “ Burton,” called Henry, “serve 
tea and coffee from the sideboard!” It was n’t genuine 
tact, but it was tact, of a sort — the sort that is as useful 
as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board 
meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, 
item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and 
“Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy 
victory?” one would exclaim at the close. 

After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with 
him. It was always best to approach him formally. 
She asked for the interview, because he was going on to 
shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen 
in town. 

“Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the 
time. What do you want?” 

“Nothing.” 

“I was afraid something had gone wrong.” 

“No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.” 

Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at 
the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her sur- 
face could always respond to his without contempt, 
though all her deeper being might be yearning to help 
him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is 
the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more 
chance was there that he would set his soul in order. 
Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather 
by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her 
that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift 
of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the 
clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the 
Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a 


A Disclosure 


269 


hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too 
clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned 
trivialities, as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the 
twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond. 

“If there is this nasty curve,” she suggested, “couldn’t 
we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; 
but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that 
would mean fewer carriages.” 

“One can’t have ladies walking through the Market 
Square. The Fussells wouldn’t like it; they were 
awfully particular at Charles’s wedding. My — she — 
one of our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the 
church was just round the corner, and I should n’t have 
minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it.” 

“You men shouldn’t be so chivalrous,” said Margaret 
thoughtfully. 

“Why not?” 

She knew why not, but said that she did not know. 
He then announced that, unless she had anything special 
to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they went off 
together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a 
little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house. 
They clattered down flagged passages, looking into 
room after room, and scaring unknown maids from the 
performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast 
must be in readiness whenjthey come back from church, 
and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so 
many agitated and serious people made Margaret smile, 
but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and 
enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of 
the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial glory. 
A little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind 
could not grasp their greatness, and he said: “By your 


270 


Howards End 


leave; let me pass, please.” Henry asked him where 
Burton was. But the servants were so new that they 
did not know one another’s names. In the still-room sat 
the band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of 
their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents 
of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. 
Margaret knew what had happened there, for it hap- 
pened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had 
boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings 
to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler. 
Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down 
the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who 
kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, 
was astonished at the sight . “We shall never get through 
it ! ” she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into 
brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she 
had again jumped out of the car while it was moving. 

Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It 
would be no small business to remain herself, and yet to 
assimilate such an establishment. She must remain her- 
self, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife 
degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she 
must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since 
she had no right to marry a man and make him uncom- 
fortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The 
loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its 
possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She 
was determined to create new sanctities among these 
hills. 

After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then 
came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when com- 
pared with the preparations for it. Everything went 
like one o’clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space, 


A Disclosure 


271 


and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No 
one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, or 
trod on Evie’s train, or cried. In a few minutes the 
clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, 
and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the 
dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was con- 
vinced that they had not been married at all, and that 
the Norman church had been intent all the time on 
other business. 

There were more documents to sign at the house, and 
the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped 
in for the garden party. There had been a great many 
refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair — not 
as big as Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and 
the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give 
Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for 
something better than this blend of Sunday church and 
fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But 
this wedding had gone off so particularly well — “quite 
like a durbar” in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she 
thoroughly agreed with her. 

So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and 
bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the 
second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. 
Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her 
in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, 
said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so 
well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed ; 
certainly she had done all she could with his intractable 
friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the 
men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the 
Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and 
the others were already moving towards the house to 


272 


Howards End 


finish their packing. “I think it did go off well,” she 
agreed. “Since I had to jump out of the motor, I ’m 
thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very 
glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at 
ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember 
that we have no practical person among us, except my 
aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large 
scale.” 

“I know,” he said gravely. “Under the circum- 
stances, it would be better to put everything into the 
hands of Harrod’s or Whiteley’s, or even to go to some 
hotel.” 

“You desire a hotel?” 

“Yes, because — well, I mustn’t interfere with you. 
No doubt you want to be married from your old home.” 

“My old home ’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only 
want my new. Is n’t it a perfect evening ” 

“The Alexandrina is n’t bad ” 

“The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with 
the threads of smoke that were issuing from their 
chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels 
of grey. 

“It ’s off Curzon Street.” 

“Is it? Let ’s be married from off Curzon Street.” 

Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling 
gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught 
it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious 
liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s bathing- 
shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and 
when they moved back to the house, she could not recog- 
nise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A 
parlour-maid was preceding them. 

“Who are those people?” she asked. 


A Disclosure 


273 


“They ’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It ’s too late 
for callers.” 

“Perhaps they ’re town people who want to see the 
wedding presents.” 

“I’m not at home yet to townees.” 

“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, 
I will.” 

He thanked her. 

Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She sup- 
posed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have 
to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and 
Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their 
rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. 
For one of the group was Helen — Helen in her oldest 
clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excite- 
ment that had made her a terror in their nursery days. 

“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what ’s wrong? Is 
Tibby ill?” 

Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. 
Then she bore forward furiously. 

“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them 
starving!” 

‘ ‘ Who ? Why have you come ? ’ ’ 

“The Basts.” 

“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have 
you done now?” 

“ He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his 
bank. Yes, he ’s done for. We upper classes have 
ruined him, and I suppose you ’ll tell me it ’s the 
battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. 
She fainted in the train.” 

“Helen, are you mad?” 

“Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve 

18 


274 


Howards End 


brought them. I ’ll stand injustice no longer. I ’ll 
show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, 
this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing 
what we ’re too slack to do ourselves.” 

“Have you actually brought two starving people from 
London to Shropshire, Helen?” 

Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and 
her hysteria abated. “There was a restaurant car on 
the train,” she said. 

“Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you 
know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won’t 
have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, 
how dare you!” she repeated, as anger filled her, “burst- 
ing in to Evie’s wedding in this heartless way. My 
goodness ! but you ’ ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. 
Look” — she indicated the house — “servants, people 
out of the windows. They think it ’s some vulgar 
scandal, and I must explain, ‘ Oh no, it ’s only my sister 
screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she 
has brought here for no conceivable reason.’ ” 

“Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,* ” said 
Helen, ominously calm. 

“Very well,” conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath 
was determined to avoid a real quarrel. “I, too, am 
sorry about them, but it beats me why you ’ve brought 
them here, or why you ’re here yourself.” 

“It ’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.” 

Margaret moved towards the house at this. She 
was determined not to worry Henry. 

“He ’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on 
seeing him.” 

“Yes, to-morrow.” 

“ I knew it was our last chance.” 


A Disclosure 


275 


“How do you do, Mr. Bast?” said Margaret, trying to 
control her voice. “This is an odd business. What 
view do you take of it?” 

“There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen. 

Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was 
shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially 
stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. 
She only knew that the lady had swept down like a 
whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the 
furniture, provided them with a dinner and a break- 
fast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next 
morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the 
morning came, had suggested that they should n’t go. 
But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had 
told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room 
had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Pad- 
dington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, 
and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared 
amid torrents of expensive scent. “You have fainted,” 
said the lady in an awe-struck voice. “Perhaps the 
air will do you good.” And perhaps it had, for here 
she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. 

“I ’m sure I don’t want to intrude,” began Leonard, 
in answer to Margaret’s question. “But you have 
been so kind to me in the past in warning me about 
the Porphyrion that I wondered — why, I wondered 
whether ” 

“Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion 
again,” supplied Helen. “Meg, this has been a cheerful 
business. A bright evening’s work that was on Chelsea 
Embankment.” 

Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. 

“I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion 


27 6 


Howards End 


because we suggested it was a bad concern, did n’t 
you?” 

“That ’s right.” 

“And went into a bank instead?” 

“I told you all that,” said Helen; “and they reduced 
their staff after he had been in a month, and now he ’s 
penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are 
directly to blame.” 

“I hate all this,” Leonard muttered. 

“I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it ’s no good mincing 
matters. You have done yourself no good by coming 
here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call 
him to account for a chance remark, you will make a 
very great mistake.” 

“I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen. 

“I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has 
put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you 
so. It ’s too late to get to town, but you ’ll find a com- 
fortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and 
I hope you ’ll be my guests there.” 

“That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel,” said 
Leonard. “You’re very kind, and no doubt it’s a 
false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no 
good at all.” 

“It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t 
you see?” 

Then he said: “ Jacky, let ’s go. We ’re more bother 
than we ’re worth. We ’re costing these ladies pounds 
and pounds already to get work for us, and they never 
will. There ’s nothing we ’re good enough to do.” 

“We would like to find you work,” said Margaret 
rather conventionally. “We want to — I, like my sister. 
You ’re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have 


A Disclosure 


2 77 

a good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back 
the bill, if you prefer it.” 

But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments 
men see clearly. “You don’t know what you ’re talk- 
ing about,” he said. “I shall never get work now. If 
rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. 
Not I. I had my groove, and I ’ve got out of it. I 
could do one particular branch of insurance in one 
particular office well enough to command a salary, but 
that ’s all. Poetry ’s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One’s 
thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, 
too, is nothing, if you ’ll understand me. I mean if a man 
over twenty once loses his own particular job, it ’s all 
over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their 
friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they 
fall over the edge. It ’s no good. It ’s the whole world 
pulling. There always will be rich and poor.” 

He ceased. “Won’t you have something to eat?” 
said Margaret. “I don’t know what to do. It isn’t 
my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad 
to see you at any other time — as I say, I don’t know 
what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. 
Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, 
Mrs. Bast.” 

They moved to a long table behind which a servant 
was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, 
coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; 
their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard re- 
fused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Mar- 
garet left them whispering together, and had a few 
more words with Helen. 

She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he ’s 
worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible.” 


278 


Howards End 


“No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.” 

“Let me tell you once for all that if you take up 
that attitude, I ’ll do nothing. No doubt you ’re right 
logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing 
things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So choose.” 

Helen looked at the sunset. 

“If you promise to take them quietly to the George, 
I will speak to Henry about them — in my own way, 
mind ; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about 
justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a 
question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he 
wants work, and that we can’t give him, but possibly 
Henry can.” 

“It ’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen. 

“Nor am I concerned with duty. I ’m concerned 
with the characters of various people whom we know, and 
how, things being as they are, things may be made a 
little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all 
business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the 
risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little 
better.” 

“Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.” 

“Take them off to the George, then, and I ’ll try. 
Poor creatures! but they look tired.” As they parted, 
she added: “I haven’t nearly done with you, though, 
Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can’t 
get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as 
you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or 
we shan’t have happy lives.” 

She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting 
down: these physical matters were important. “Was 
it townees?” he asked, greeting her with a pleasant 
smile. 


A Disclosure 


279 


“You ’ll never believe me,” said Margaret, sitting 
down beside him. “It ’s all right now, but it was my 
sister.” 

“ Helen here?” he cried, preparing to rise. “But 
she refused the invitation. I thought 'she despised 
weddings.’* 

“Don’t get up. She has not come to the wedding. 
I *ve bundled her off to the George.” 

Inherently hospitable, he protested. 

“No; she has two of her proteges with her, and must 
keep with them.” 

“Let ’em all come.” 

“My dear Henry, did you see them?” 

“I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, 
certainly.” 

“The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight 
of a sea-green and salmon bunch?” 

“What! are they out bean-feasting?” 

“No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on 
I want to talk to you about them.” 

She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing 
with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from com- 
radeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he 
desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: “Why 
later on? Tell me now. No time like the present.” 

“Shall I?” 

“If it is n’t a long story.” 

“Oh, not five minutes; but there *s a sting at the end 
of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your 
office.” 

“What are his qualifications?” 

“I don’t know. He ’s a clerk.” 

“How old?” 


28 o 


Howards End 


“Twenty-five, perhaps.” 

“What ’s his name?” 

“Bast,” said Margaret, and was about to remind him 
that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped her- 
self. It had not been a successful meeting. 

“Where was he before?” 

“Dempster’s Bank.” 

“Why did he leave?” he asked, still remembering 
nothing. 

“They reduced their staff.” 

“All right; I ’ll see him.” 

It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the 
day. Now she understood why some women prefer in- 
fluence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning 
suffragettes, had said: “The woman who can’t influence 
her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be 
ashamed of herself.” Margaret had winced, but she was 
influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little 
victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods 
of the harem. 

“I should be glad if you took him,” she said, “but I 
don’t know whether he ’s qualified.” 

“I ’ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this must n’t 
be taken as a precedent.” 

“No, of course — of course ” 

“I can’t fit in your prot6g£s every day. Business 
would suffer.” 

“I can promise you he ’s the last. He — he ’s rather 
a special case.” 

“Prot6g6s always are.” 

She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra 
touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help 
her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was 


A Disclosure 


281 


and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she 
herself — hovering as usual between the two, now accept- 
ing men as they are, now yearning with her sister for 
Truth. Love and Truth — their warfare seems eternal. 
Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they 
were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was 
reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into 
thin air. 

“Your protege has made us late,” said he. “The 
Fussells will just be starting.” 

On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry 
would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, 
while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics 
of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the 
world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of moun- 
tain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with 
which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, 
like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, 
its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border 
warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between 
things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more 
the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were 
dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for 
us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret 
descended the mound on her lover’s arm, she felt that 
she was having her share. 

To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; 
the husband and Helen had left her there to finish 
her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret 
found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shak- 
ing her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered 
the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again 
odours from the abyss — odours the more disturbing 


282 


Howards End 


because they were involuntary. For there was no 
malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one 
hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no 
harm to anybody. 

“She ’s overtired,” Margaret whispered. 

“She’s something else,” said Henry. “This won’t 
do. I can’t have her in my garden in this state.” 

“Is she — ” Margaret hesitated to add “drunk.” 
Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown 
particular. He discountenanced risque conversations 
now. 

Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, 
which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. 

“ Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,” 
he said sharply. 

Jacky replied: “If it is n’t Hen!” 

“ Ne crois pas gue le mari lui ressemble ,” apologised 
Margaret. 11 II est tout a fait different .” 

“Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly. 

Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I can’t con- 
gratulate you on your proteges,” he remarked. 

“Hen, don’t go. You do love me, dear, don’t you?” 

“Bless us, what a person!” sighed Margaret, gather- 
ing up her skirts. 

Jacky pointed with her cake. “You ’re a nice boy, 
you are.” She yawned. “There now, I love you.” 

“Henry, I am awfully sorry.” 

“And pray why?” he asked, and looked at her so 
sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more 
scandalised than the facts demanded. 

“To have brought this down on you.” 

“Pray don’t apologise.” 

The voice continued. 


A Disclosure 283 

“Why does she call you ‘Hen’?” said Margaret in- 
nocently. “Has she ever seen you before? ” 

“Seen Hen before!” said Jacky. “Who hasn’t seen 
Hen? He ’s serving you like me, my dear. These 
boys! You wait — Still we love ’em.” 

“Are you now satisfied?” Henry asked. 

Margaret began to grow frightened. “I don’t know 
what it is all about,” she said. “Let ’s come in.” 

But he thought she was acting. He thought he was 
trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. “Don’t 
you indeed?” he said bitingly. “I do. Allow me to 
congratulate you on the success of your plan.” 

“This is Helen’s plan, not mine.” 

“I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very 
well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Mar- 
garet. You are quite right — it was necessary. I am a 
man, and have lived a man’s past. I have the honour 
to release you from your engagement.” 

Still she could not understand. She knew of life’s 
seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. 
More words from Jacky were necessary — words un- 
equivocal, undenied. 

“So that — ” burst from her, and she went indoors. 
She stopped herself from saying more. 

“So what?” asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting 
ready to start in the hall. 

“We were saying — Henry and I were just having 
the fiercest argument, my point being — ” Seizing his 
fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. 
He protested, and there was a playful little scene. 

“No, let me do that,” said Henry, following. 

“Thanks so much! You see — he has forgiven 
me!” 


284 


Howards End 


The Colonel said gallantly: “I don’t expect there’s 
much to forgive.” 

He got into the car. The ladies followed him after 
an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had 
been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, 
still thanking their host and patronising their future 
hostess, the guests were borne away. 

Then Margaret continued: “So that woman has been 
your mistress?” 

“You put it with your usual delicacy,” he replied. 

“When, please?” 

“Why?” 

“When, please?” 

“Ten years ago.” 

She left him without a word. For it was not her 
tragedy; it was Mrs. Wilcox’s. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

Two Kinds of People 

Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of 
eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry. 
Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had 
left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night 
in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had 
made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done. 
Margaret would play the game properly now, and though 
Helen disapproved of her sister’s methods, she knew 
that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run. 

“Mr. Wilcox is so illogical,” she explained to Leonard, 
who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her 
in the empty coffee-room. “If we told him it was his 
duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact 
is, he is n’t properly educated. I don’t want to set you 
against him, but you ’ll find him a trial.” 

“I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel,” 
was all that Leonard felt equal to. 

“I believe in personal responsibility. Don’t you? 
And in personal everything. I hate — I suppose I 
ought n’t to say that — but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong 
tack surely. Or perhaps it is n’t their fault. Perhaps 
the little thing that says * I ’ is missing out of the middle 
285 


286 


Howards End 


of their heads, and then it ’s a waste of time to blame 
them. There ’s a nightmare of a theory that says a 
special race is being born which will rule the rest of us 
in the future just because it lacks the little thing that 
says ‘I/ Had you heard that?” 

”1 get no time for reading.” 

“Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds 
of people — our kind, who live straight from the middle of 
their heads, and the other kind who can’t, because their 
heads have no middle? They can’t say ‘I.’ They 
are n't in fact, and so they ’re supermen. Pierpont 
Morgan has never said ‘I’ in his life.” 

Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted 
intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was 
more important than his ruined past. “I never got on 
to Nietzsche,” he said. “But I always understood that 
those supermen were rather what you may call egoists.” 

“Oh no, that ’s wrong,” replied Helen. “No super- 
man ever said ‘I want,’ because ‘I want’ must lead to 
the question, ‘Who am I? ’ and so to Pity and to Justice. 
He only says ‘ want.’ ‘Want Europe, ’4f he ’s Napoleon ; 
‘want wives,’ if he ’s Bluebeard; ‘want Botticelli,’ if he ’s 
Pierpont Morgan. Never the ‘I’; and if you could 
pierce through the superman, you ’d find panic and 
emptiness in the middle.” 

Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: 
“May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both 
the sort that say ‘I’?” 

“Of course.” 

“And your sister, too?” 

“Of course,” repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was 
annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed. 
“All presentable people say ‘I.’ ” 


287 


Two Kinds of People 

“But Mr. Wilcox — he is not perhaps — 

“I don’t know that it’s any good discussing Mr. 
Wilcox either.” 

“Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. Helen asked herself 
why she had snubbed him. Once or twice during the day 
she had encouraged him to criticise, and then had pulled 
him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If 
so, it was disgusting of her. 

But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Every- 
thing she did was natural, and incapable of causing 
offence. While the Miss Schlegels were together he had 
felt them scarcely human — a sort of admonitory whirli- 
gig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was 
in Helen’s case unmarried, in Margaret’s about to be 
married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light 
had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw 
that it was full of men and women, some of whom were 
more friendly to him than others. Helen had become 
“his” Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and corresponded 
with him, and had swept down yesterday with grateful 
vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe 
and remote. He would not presume to help her, for in- 
stance. He had never liked her, and began to think that 
his original impression was true, and that her sister did 
not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who 
gave away so much, was receiving too little. Leonard 
was pleased to think that he could spare her vexation by 
holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about 
Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery when 
he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shock, he 
did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions 
about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the 
face of a love that had never been pure. To keep per- 


288 


Howards End 


fection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the future 
gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for 
Helen’s sake, must not know. 

Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation 
to his wife. “Mrs. Bast — does she ever say ‘I’?” she 
asked, half mischievously, and then, “Is she very tired?” 

“It ’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard. 

“Shall I sit up with her?” 

“No, thank you; she does not need company.” 

“Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?” 

Leonard blushed up to his eyes. 

“You ought to know my ways by now. Does that 
question offend you?” 

“No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.” 

“Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your mar- 
riage has been a happy one. You and she can have 
nothing in common.” 

He did not deny it, but said shyly: “ I suppose that ’s 
pretty obvious; but Jacky never meant to do anybody 
any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things, 
I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it ’s 
more mine. I need n’t have married her, but as I have 
I must stick to her and keep her.” 

“How long have you been married?” 

“Nearly three years.” 

“What did your people say?” 

“They will not have anything to do with us. They 
had a sort of family council when they heard I was mar- 
ried, and cut us off altogether.” 

Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My 
good boy, what a mess!” she said gently. “Who are 
your people?” 

He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, 


Two Kinds of People 289 

had been in trade; his sisters had married commercial 
travellers ; his brother was a lay-reader. 

“And your grandparents?” 

Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful 
up to now. “They were just nothing at all,” he said — 
“agricultural labourers and that sort.” 

“So! From which part?” 

“Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father — he, 
oddly enough, came from these parts round here.” 

“From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My 
mother’s people were Lancashire. But why do your 
brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

“Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can 
bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell the 
more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything 
against her?” 

He was silent. 

“I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely. 

“I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.” 

“We must be honest, even over these things. I have 
guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does 
not make the least difference to me. I shall feel just 
the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for 
these things, but men.” 

Leonard left it at that — so long as she did not guess the 
man. She stood at the window and slowly pulled up 
the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The 
mists had begun. When she turned back to him her 
eyes were shining. 

“Don’t you worry,” he pleaded. “I can’t bear that. 
We shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get 
work — something regular to do. Then it wouldn’t 
19 


290 


Howards End 


be so bad again. I don’t trouble after books as I used. 
I can imagine that with regular work we should settle 
down again. It stops one thinking.” 

“Settle down to what?” 

' “Oh, just settle down.” 

“And that ’s to be life!” said Helen, with a catch in 
her throat. “How can you, with all the beautiful 
things to see and do — with music — with walking at 
night ” 

“Walking is well enough when a man ’s in work,” he 
answered. “Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but 
there ’s nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out 
of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and 
Stevensons, I seemed to see life straight and real, and it 
is n’t a pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to 
you, but they ’ll never be the same to me again, and I 
shan’t ever again think night in the woods is wonderful.” 

“Why not?” asked Helen, throwing up the window. 

“Because I see one must have money.” 

“Well, you ’re wrong.” 

“I wish I was wrong, but — the clergyman — he has 
money of his own, or else he ’s paid; the poet or the 
musician — just the same; the tramp — he ’s no different. 
The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid 
for with other people’s money. Miss Schlegel the real 
thing ’s money, and all the rest is a dream.” 

“You ’re still wrong. You ’ve forgotten Death.” 

Leonard could not understand. 

“ If we lived for ever, what you say would be true. But 
we have to die, we have to leave life presently. In- 
justice and greed would be the real thing if we lived for 
ever. As it is, we must hold to other things, because 
Death is coming. I love Death — not morbidly, but 


291 


Two Kinds of People 

because He explains. He shows me the emptiness of 
Money. Death and Money are the eternal foes. Not 
Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death, 
Mr. Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and 
the tramp will be happier in it than the man who has 
never learnt to say, ‘I am I.’ ” 

“I wonder.” 

“We are all in a mist — I know, but I can help you this 
far — men like the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than 
any. Sane, sound Englishmen! building up empires, 
levelling all the world into what they call common sense. 
But mention Death to them and they ’re offended, be- 
cause Death ’s really Imperial, and He cries out against 
them for ever.” 

“I am as afraid of Death as any one.” 

“But not of the idea of Death.” 

“But what is the difference?” 

“Infinite difference,” said Helen, more gravely than 
before. 

Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense 
of great things sweeping out of the shrouded night. But 
he could not receive them, because his heart was still 
full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt 
the concert at Queen’s Hall, so the lost situation was 
obscuring the diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and 
Materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take 
him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was 
king of this world, the superman, with his own morality, 
whose head remained in the clouds. 

“I must be stupid,” he said apologetically. 

: While to Helen the paradox became clearer and 
clearer. “ Death destroys a man : the idea of Death saves 
him.” Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay 


292 


Howards End 


the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that 
is great in us responds to it. Men of the world may re- 
coil from the charnel-house that they will one day enter, 
but Love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer, 
and in their age-long struggle the thews of Love have 
been strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is 
no one who can stand against him. 

“So never give in,” continued the girl, and restated 
again and again the vague yet convincing plea that the 
Invisible lodges against the Visible. Her excitement 
grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard 
to the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted 
her. Presently the waitress entered and gave her a letter 
from Margaret. Another note, addressed to Leonard, 
was inside. They read them, listening to the murmur- 
ings of the river. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

The Core of the Question 

For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she con- 
trolled herself, and wrote some letters. She was too 
bruised to speak to Henry; she could pity him, and even 
determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep in her 
heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his degra- 
dation was too strong. She could not command voice or 
look, and the gentle words that she forced out through 
her pen seemed to proceed from some other person. 

“My dearest boy,” she began, “this is not to part us. 
It is everything or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. 
It happened long before we ever met, and even if it had 
happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. I 
do understand.” 

But she crossed out “I do understand”; it struck a 
false note. Henry could not bear to be understood. She 
also crossed out, “It is everything or nothing.” Henry 
would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She 
must not comment; comment is unfeminine. 

“I think that ’ll about do,” she thought. 

Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he 
worth all this bother? To have yielded to a woman of 
that sort was everything, yes, it was, and she could not 
293 


294 


Howards End 


be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation into 
her own language, and her brain reeled. Men must be 
different, even to want to yield to such a temptation. Her 
belief in comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as 
from that glass saloon on the Great Western, which shel- 
tered male and female alike from the fresh air. Are the 
sexes really races, each with its own code of morality, 
and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to keep 
things going? Strip human intercourse of the pro- 
prieties, and is it reduced to this? Her judgment told 
her no. She knew that out of Nature’s device we have 
built a magic that will win us immortality. Far more 
mysterious than the call of sex to sex is the tenderness 
that we throw into that call ; far wider is the gulf between 
us and the farmyard than between the farmyard and the 
garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in ways 
that Science cannot measure, to ends that Theology 
dares not contemplate. “Men did produce one jewel,” 
the gods will say, and, saying, will give us immortality. 
Margaret knew all this, but for the moment she could not 
feel it, and transformed the marriage of Evie and Mr. 
Cahill into a carnival of fools, and her own marriage — 
too miserable to think of that, she tore up the letter, and 
then wrote another: 

“ Dear Mr. Bast, 

“I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I pro- 
mised, and am sorry to say that he has no vacancy for 
you. 

“Yours truly, 

“M. J. SCHLEGEL.” 

She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she 


295 


The Core of the Question 

took less trouble than she might have done; but her head 
was aching, and she could not stop to pick her words: 

“ Dear Helen, 

“Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry 
found the woman drunk on the lawn. I am having a 
room got ready for you here, and will you please come 
round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all 
the type we should trouble about. I may go round to 
them myself in the morning, and do anything that is fair. 

“M.” 

In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being 
practical. Something might be arranged for the Basts 
later on, but they must be silenced for the moment. 
She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman 
and Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one 
answered it; Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone 
to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Saturnalia. 
Consequently she went over to the George herself. 
She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have 
been perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, 
she gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed the square 
she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of the window of 
the coffee-room, and feared she was already too late. 
Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what 
she had done. 

This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The 
night wind had been rattling the pictures against the 
wall, and the noise had disturbed him. 

“Who ’s there?” he called, quite the householder. 

Margaret walked in and past him. 

“I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is 
best here; so don’t lock the front-door.” 


296 


Howards End 


“I thought some one had got in,” said Henry. 

“At the same time I told the man that we could do 
nothing for him. I don’t know about later, but now the 
Basts must clearly go.” 

“Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after 
all?” 

“Probably.” 

“Is she to be shown up to your room?” 

“I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going 
to bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could 
some one go to carry her bag?” 

He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to 
summon the servants. 

“You must make more noise than that if you want 
them to hear.” 

Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came 
shouts of laughter. “Far too much screaming there,” 
he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went up- 
stairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, 
or sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened, 
and her deepest instincts told her that this was wrong. 
For his own sake, some explanation was due. 

And yet — what could an explanation tell her? A 
date, a place, a few details, which she could imagine all 
too clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she 
saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. 
Henry’s inner life had long laid open to her — his in- 
tellectual confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, 
his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him 
because his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Per- 
haps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was 
done long before her day. She struggled against the 
feeling. She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox’s wrong was 


297 


The Core of the Question 

her own. But she was not a barren theorist. As she 
undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire 
for a scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he 
liked, for she loved him, and some day she would use 
her love to make him a better man. 

Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this 
crisis. Pity, if one may generalise, is at the bottom of 
woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities, 
and however tender their liking, we dare not be unworthy 
of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness 
stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for 
good or for evil. 

Here was the core of the question. Henry must be 
forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mattered. 
Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must be left 
to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion 
now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blunder- 
ing up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known 
of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret 
fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the 
murmurs of the river that descended all the night from 
Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, 
colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for 
the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning 
mists. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


A Sudden Departure 

“Henry dear — ” was her greeting. 

He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the 
Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt 
by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was 
unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face 
where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. 

“Henry dear, look at me. No, I won’t have vou 
shirking. Look at me. There. That ’s all.” 

“You’re referring to last evening,” he said huskily. 
1 1 1 have released you from your engagement I could find 
excuses, but I won’t. No, I won’t. A thousand times 
no. I ’m a bad lot, and must be left at that.” 

Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building 
a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, 
so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was 
not true repentance. 

“Leave it where you will, boy. It’s not going to 
trouble us; I know what I ’m talking about, and it will 
make no difference.” 

“No difference?” he inquired. “No difference, when 
you find that I am not the fellow you thought?” He 
was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have 
preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to 
298 


A Sudden Departure 299 

rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that 
she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too 
straight; they had read books that are suitable for men 
only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though 
she had determined against one, there was a scene, all 
the same. It was somehow imperative. 

“I am unworthy of you,” he began. “Had I been 
worthy, I should not have released you from your en- 
gagement. I know what I am talking about. I can’t 
bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it.” 

She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, 
rising to his feet, went on: “You, with your sheltered life, 
and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and 
your sister, and women like you — I say, how can you 
guess the temptations that lie round a man?” 

“It is difficult for us,” said Margaret; “but if we are 
worth marrying, we do guess.” 

“Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do 
you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows over- 
seas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter ex- 
perience, and yet you say it makes ‘no difference.’ ” 

“Not to me.” 

He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the side- 
board and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. 
Being the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that 
kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew 
that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as point- 
ing out the gulf between the male soul and the female, 
and she did not desire to hear him on this point. 

“Did Helen come?” she asked. 

He shook his head. 

“But that won’t do at all, at all! We don’t want her 
gossiping with Mrs. Bast.” 


300 


Howards End 


“Good God! no!” he exclaimed, suddenly natural. 
Then he caught himself up. “Let them gossip. My 
game ’s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness — 
little as my thanks are worth.” 

“Did n’t she send me a message or anything?” 

“I heard of none.” 

“Would you ring the bell, please?” 

“What to do?” 

“Why, to inquire.” 

He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. 
Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler 
came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the 
George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to 
the George? 

“I ’ll go, thank you,” said Margaret, and dismissed 
him. 

“It is no good,” said Henry. “Those things leak 
out; you cannot stop a story once it has started. I 
have known cases of other men — I despised them once, 
I thought that I ’ m different, I shall never be tempted. 
Oh, Margaret — ” He came and sat down near her, 
improvising emotion. She could not bear to listen to 
him. “We fellows all come to grief once in our time. 
Will you believe that? There are moments when the 
strongest man — ‘Let him who standeth, take heed 
lest he fall.’ That ’s true, is n’t it? If you knew all, 
you would excuse me. I was far from good influences — 
far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and 
longed for a woman’s voice. That ’s enough. I have 
told you too much already for you to forgive me now.” 

“Yes, that ’s enough, dear.” 

“ I have ” — he lowered his voice — ‘ ‘ I have been through 
hell.” 


30i 


A Sudden Departure 

Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had 
he suffered tortures of remorse, or had it been, “There! 
that ’s over. Now for respectable life again”? The 
latter, if she read him rightly. A man who has been 
through hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble 
and hides it, if, indeed, it still exists. Only in legend 
does the sinner come forth penitent, but terrible, to 
conquer pure woman by his resistless power. Henry 
was anxious to be terrible, but had not got it in him. 

/He was a good average Englishman, who had slipped.') 

\ The really culpable point — his faithlessness to Mrs. 

J Wilcox — never seemed to strike him. She longed to 
mention Mrs. Wilcox. 

And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very 
simple story. Ten years ago was the time, a garrison 
town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked her 
whether she could possibly forgive him, and she answered, 
“I have already forgiven you, Henry.” She chose her 
words carefully, and so saved him from panic. She 
played the girl, until he could rebuild his fortress and 
hide his soul from the world. When the butler came 
to clear away, Henry was in a very different mood — 
asked the fellow what he was in such a hurry for, com- 
plained of the noise last night in the servants’ hall. 
Margaret looked intently at the butler. He, as a hand- 
some young man, was faintly attractive to her as a 
woman — an attraction so faint as scarcely to be per- 
ceptible, yet the skies would have fallen if she had 
mentioned it to Henry. 

On her return from the George the building operations 
were complete, and the old Henry fronted her, com- 
petent, cynical, and kind. He had made a clean breast, 
had been forgiven, and the great thing now was to forget 


302 


Howards End 


his failure, and to send it the way of other unsuccessful 
investments. Jacky rejoined Howards End and Ducie 
Street, and the vermilion motor-car, and the Argentine 
Hard Dollars, and all the things and people for whom he 
had never had much use and had less now. Their mem- 
ory hampered him. He could scarcely attend to Mar- 
garet, who brought back disquieting news from the 
George. Helen and her clients had gone. 

“Well, let them go — the man and his wife, I mean, for 
the more we see of your sister the better.” 

“But they have gone separately — Helen very early, 
the Basts just before I arrived. They have left no mes- 
sage. They have answered neither of my notes. I don’t 
like to think what it all means.” 

“What did you say in the notes?” 

“I told you last night.” 

“Oh — ah — yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the 
garden?” 

Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather 
soothed her. But the wheels of Evie’s wedding were 
still at work, tossing the guests outwards as deftly as they 
had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long. 
It had been arranged that they should motor to Shrews- 
bury, whence he would go north, and she back to London 
with the Warringtons. For a fraction of time she was 
happy. Then her brain recommenced. 

“I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind at 
the George. Helen would not have left unless she had 
heard something. I mismanaged that. It is wretched. 
I ought to have parted her from that woman at once.” 

“Margaret!” he exclaimed, loosing her arm impres- 
sively. 

“ Y es — yes , Henry ? ’ ’ 


A Sudden Departure 


303 


“I am far from a saint — in fact, the reverse — but you 
have taken me, for better or worse. Bygones must be 
bygones. You have promised to forgive me. Mar- 
garet, a promise is a promise. Never mention that 
woman again.” 

“Except for some practical reason — never.” 

“Practical! You practical!” 

“Yes, I ’m practical,” she murmured, stooping over 
the mowing-machine and playing with the grass which 
trickled through her fingers like sand. 

He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. 
Not for the first time, he was threatened with black- 
mail. He was rich and supposed to be moral ; the Basts 
knew that he was not, and might find it profitable to 
hint as much. 

“At all events, you must n’t worry,” he said. “This 
is a man ’s business.” He thought intently. “On no 
account mention it to anybody.” 

Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was 
really paving the way for a lie. If necessary he would 
deny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast, and prosecute 
her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here 
was Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There 
the house. Round them were half a dozen gardeners, 
clearing up after his daughter’s wedding. All was so 
solid and spruce, that^he past flew up out of sight 
like a spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes 
unrolled.} 

Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round 
during the next five, and plunged into action. Gongs 
were tapped, orders issued, Margaret was sent to dress, 
and the housemaid to sweep up the long trickle of grass 
that she had left across the hall. As is Man to the Uni- 


3»4 


Howards End 


verse, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of 
some men — a concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little 
Ten Minutes moving self-contained through its ap- 
pointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for the Now, and 
may be wiser than all philosophers. He lived for the 
five minutes that have past, and the five to come; he 
had the business mind. 

How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of 
Oniton and breasted the great round hills? Margaret 
had heard a certain rumour, but was all right. She had 
forgiven him, God bless her, and he felt the manlier for 
it. Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never must 
hear. No more must Paul. Over his children he felt 
great tenderness, which he did not try to track to a 
cause; Mrs. Wilcox was too far back in his life. He did 
not connect her with the sudden aching love that he felt 
for Evie. Poor little Evie! he trusted that Cahill would 
make her a decent husband. 

And Margaret? How did she stand? 

She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had 
heard something. She dreaded meeting her in town. 
And she was anxious about Leonard, for whom they cer- 
tainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to starve. 
But the main situation had not altered. She still loved 
Henry. His actions, not his disposition, had disap- 
pointed her, and she could bear that. And she loved 
her future home. Standing up in the car, just where 
she had leapt from it two days before, she gazed back 
with deep emotion upon Oniton. Besides the Grange 
and the Castle keep, she could now pick out the church 
and the black-and-white gables of the George. There 
was the bridge, and the river nibbling its green peninsula. 
She could even see the bathing-shed, but while she was 


A Sudden Departure 305 

looking for Charles’s new spring-board, the forehead of 
the hill rose and hid the whole scene. 

She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows 
down into England, day after day the sun retreats into 
the Welsh mountains, and the tower chimes, See the 
Conquering Hero . But the Wilcoxes have no part in 
the place, nor in any place. It is not their names that 
recur in the parish register. It is not their ghosts that 
sigh among the alders at evening. They have swept into 
the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and 
a little money behind. 

20 


CHAPTER XXX 


Helen Consults with Tibby 

Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He 
had moved out of college, and was contemplating the 
Universe, or such portions of it as concerned him, from 
his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall. He was not 
concerned with much. When a young man is untroubled 
by passions and sincerely indifferent to public opinion 
his outlook is necessarily limited. Tibby wished 
neither to strengthen the position of the rich nor to 
improve that of the poor, and so was well content to 
watch the elms nodding behind the mildly embattled 
parapets of Magdalen. There are worse lives. Though 
selfish, he was never cruel; though affected in manner, 
he never posed. Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic 
equipment, and it was only after many visits that men 
discovered Schlegel to possess a character and a brain. 
He had done well in Mods, much to the surprise of those 
who attended lectures and took proper exercise, and was 
now glancing disdainfully at Chinese in case he should 
some day consent to qualify as a Student Interpreter. 
To him thus employed Helen entered. A telegram had 
preceded her. 

He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had altered. 

306 


307 


Helen Consults with Tibby 

As a rule he found her too pronounced, and had never 
come across this look of appeal, pathetic yet dignified — 
the look of a sailor who has lost everything at sea. 

“I have come from Oniton,” she began. “There has 
been a great deal of trouble there.” 

“Who ’s for lunch?” said Tibby, picking up the claret, 
which was warming in the hearth. Helen sat down sub- 
missively at the table. “Why such an early start?” he 
asked. 

“Sunrise or something — when I could get away.” 

“So I surmise. Why?” 

“I don’t know what ’s to be done, Tibby. I am very 
much upset at a piece of news that concerns Meg, and 
do not want to face her, and I am not going back to 
Wickham Place. I stopped here to tell you this.” 

The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibby put a 
marker in the leaves of his Chinese Grammar and helped 
them. Oxford — the Oxford of the vacation — dreamed 
and rustled outside, and indoors the little fire was coated 
with grey where the sunshine touched it. Helen 
continued her odd story. 

“Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone. 
I mean to go to Munich or else Bonn.” 

“Such a message is easily given,” said her brother. 

“As regards Wickham Place and my share of the 
furniture, you and she are to do exactly as you like. 
My own feeling is that everything may just as well be 
sold. What does one want with dusty economic books, 
which have made the world no better, or with mother’s 
hideous chiffoniers? I have also another commission 
for you. I want you to deliver a letter.” She got up. 
“I haven’t written it yet. Why shouldn’t I post it, 
though?” She sat down again. “My head is rather 


3°8 


Howards End 


wretched. I hope that none of your friends are likely 
to come in.” 

Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in 
this condition. Then he asked whether anything had 
gone wrong at Evie’s wedding. 

“Not there,” said Helen, and burst into tears. 

He had known her hysterical — it was one of her aspects 
with which he had no concern — and yet these tears 
touched him as something unusual. They were nearer 
the things that did concern him, such as music. He laid 
down his knife and looked at her curiously. Then, as 
she continued to sob, he went on with his lunch. 

The time came for the second course, and she was 
still crying. Apple Charlotte was to follow, which 
spoils by waiting. “Do you mind Mrs. Martlett com- 
ing in?” he asked, “or shall I take it from her at the 
door?” 

“Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?” 

He took her to his bedroom, and introduced the pud- 
ding in her absence. Having helped himself, he put it 
down to warm in the hearth. His hand stretched to- 
wards the Grammar, and soon he was turning over the 
pages, raising his eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at human 
nature, perhaps at Chinese. To him thus employed 
Helen returned. She had pulled herself together, but 
the grave appeal had not vanished from her eyes. 

“Now for the explanation,” she said. “Why didn’t 
I begin with it? I have found out something about Mr. 
Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and 
ruined two people’s lives. It all came on me very sud- 
denly last night; I am very much upset, and I do not 
know what to do. Mrs. Bast ” 

“Oh, those people!” 


Helen Consults with Tibby 309 

Helen seemed silenced. 

“Shall I lock the door again?” 

“No thanks, Tibbikins. You ’re being very good to 
me. I want to tell you the story before I go abroad. 
You must do exactly what you like — treat it as part of 
the furniture. Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think. 
But I cannot face her and tell her that the man she is 
going to marry has misconducted himself. I don’t even 
know whether she ought to be told. Knowing as she 
does that I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think 
that I want to ruin her match. I simply don’t know 
what to make of such a thing. I trust your judgment. 
What would you do?” 

“I gather he has had a mistress,” said Tibby. 

Helen flushed with shame and anger. “And ruined 
two people’s lives. And goes about saying that personal 
actions count for nothing, and there always will be rich 
and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich 
out in Cyprus — I don’t wish to make him worse than he 
is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him. But 
there it is. They met. He goes his way and she goes 
hers. What do you suppose is the end of such women? ” 

He conceded that it was a bad business. 

“They end in two ways: Either they sink till the 
lunatic asylums and the workhouses are full of them, 
and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the papers com- 
plaining of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap a 
boy into marriage before it is too late. She — I can’t 
blame her.” 

“But this is n’t all,” she continued after a long pause, 
during which the landlady served them with coffee. “I 
come now to the business that took us to Oniton. We 
went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox’s advice, the man 


3io 


Howards End 


throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one, 
from which he is dismissed. There are certain excuses, 
but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg her- 
self admitted. It is only common justice that he should 
employ the man himself. But he meets the woman, and, 
like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries to get rid of 
them. He makes Meg write. Two notes came from 
her late that evening — one for me, one for Leonard, dis- 
missing him with barely a reason. I could n’t under- 
stand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to 
Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her to get rooms, 
and was still speaking about him when Leonard came 
back to her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought 
it natural he should be ruined twice. Natural! Could 
you have contained yourself?” 

“It is certainly a very bad business,” said Tibby. 

His reply seemed to calm his sister. “I was afraid 
that I saw it out of proportion. But you are right out- 
side it, and you must know. In a day or two — or per- 
haps a week — take whatever steps you think fit. I 
leave it in your hands.” 

She concluded her charge. 

“The facts as they touch Meg are all before you,” she 
added; and Tibby sighed and felt it rather hard that, 
because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to 
serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human 
beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had 
rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as 
some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, 
so Tibby ’s attention wandered when “personal rela- 
tions” came under discussion. Ought Margaret to 
know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar 
questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he 


Helen Consults with Tibby 31 1 

had learned to say that the importance of human beings 
has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram, 
with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But 
he might have let it off now if his sister had not been 
ceaselessly beautiful. 

“You see, Helen — have a cigarette — I don’t see what 
I ’m to do.’’ 

“Then there ’s nothing to be done. I dare say you 
are right. Let them marry. There remains the ques- 
tion of compensation.” 

“Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you 
not better consult an expert?” 

“This part is in confidence,” said Helen. “It has 
nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. 
The compensation — I do not see who is to pay it if I 
don’t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. 
As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and 
when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I 
shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do 
this.” 

“What is the sum?” 

“Five thousand.” 

t “Good God alive!” said Tibby, and went crimson. 

1 “Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through 
life having done one thing — to have raised one person 
from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and 
blankets — making the grey more grey. No doubt peo- 
ple will think me extraordinary.” 

“I don’t care an iota what people think!” cried he, 
heated to unusual manliness of diction. “But it ’s 
half what you have.” 

“Not nearly half.” She spread out her hands over 
her soiled skirt. “I have far too much, and we settled 


312 


Howards End 


at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is 
necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will 
bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It is n’t 
enough. ’ ’ 

He could not recover. He was not angry or even 
shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty 
to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks 
people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations 
would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five 
thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for 
him personally. 

“I did n’t expect you to understand me.” 

“I? I understand nobody.” 

“But you ’ll do it?” 

“Apparently.” 

“I leave you two commissions, then. The first, con- 
cerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion. 
The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned 
to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a 
hundred pounds on account to-morrow.” 

He walked with her to the station, passing through 
those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him 
and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes 
and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the ganglion 
of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was 
the phantom, how faint its claim to represent England. 
Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing; the 
Basts were in her brain, and she retold the crisis in a 
meditative way, which might have made other men 
curious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He 
asked her once why she had taken the Basts right into 
the heart of Evie’s wedding. She stopped like a fright- 
ened animal and said, “Does that seem to you so odd?” 


Helen Consults with Tibby 313 

Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted 
him, until they were absorbed into the figure of St. Mary 
the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on the 
walk home. 

It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his 
duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was 
terrified at Helen’s flight, and he had to say that she 
had called in at Oxford. Then she said : * ‘ Did she seem 
worried at any rumour about Henry?” He answered, 
“Yes.” “I knew it was that!” she exclaimed. “I ’ll 
write to her.” Tibby was relieved. 

He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen 
gave him, and stated that he was instructed to forward 
later on five thousand pounds. An answer came back 
very civil and quiet in tone — such an answer as Tibby 
himself would have given. The cheque was returned, 
the legacy refused, the writer being in no need of money. 
Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in the fulness of 
his heart that Leonard Bast seemed somewhat a monu- 
mental person after all. Helen’s reply was frantic. He 
was to take no notice. He was to go down at once and 
say that she commanded acceptance. He went. A 
scurf of books and china ornaments awaited him. The 
Basts had just been evicted for not paying their rent, and 
had wandered no one knew whither. Helen had begun 
bungling with her money by this time, and had even 
sold out her shares in the Nottingham and Derby Rail- 
way. For some weeks she did nothing. Then she 
reinvested, and, owing to the good advice of her stock- 
brokers, became rather richer than she had been before. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Established in Ducie Street ) 

Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as vari- 
ously as the generations of men, some with a tragic 
roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of 
ghosts, while from others — and thus was the death of 
Wickham Place — the spirit slips before the body per- 
ishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating 
the girls more than they knew, and causing either to 
accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a 
corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the 
memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its 
round-topped doorway passed furniture, and pictures, 
and books, until the last room was gutted and the last 
van had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two 
longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. 
Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it back into the 
grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper, 
they were not the worst of undertakers for a house 
which had always been human, and had not mistaken 
culture for an end. 

The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into 
Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly offered 
Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died 
abroad — an unsatisfactory affair — and as there seemed 
314 


Established in Ducie Street 


3i5 


little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, 
he cancelled the agreement, and resumed possession 
himself. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were 
welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and lower 
rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the 
offer gladly; it saved him from coming to any decision 
about the future. The plate and the more valuable 
pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk 
of the things went country- ways, and were entrusted 
to the guardianship of Miss Avery. 

Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were 
married. They have weathered the storm, and may 
reasonably expect peace. ( To have no illusions and yet 
to love — what stronger surety can a woman find? She 
had seen her husband’s past as well as his heart.' She 
knew her own heart with a thoroughness that common- 
place people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. 
Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious 
to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were 
married quietly — really quietly, for as the day ap- 
proached she refused to go through another Oniton. 
•Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of 
health, presided over a few colourless refreshments. 
The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who wit- 
nessed the marriage settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. 
Paul did send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and 
without the aid of music, the clergyman made them man 
and wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts 
off married couples from the world. She, a monogamist, 
regretted the cessation of some of life’s innocent odours ; 
he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced 
by the change and less liable to the temptations that 
had assailed him in the past. 


3*6 


Howards End 


They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry 
knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped 
for a meeting with her sister. In this she was disap- 
pointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over 
the Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory post-card 
from the shores of the Lake of Garda, saying that her 
plans were uncertain and had better be ignored. Evi- 
dently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are 
surely enough to accustom an outsider to a situation 
which a wife has accepted in two days, and Margaret 
had again to regret her sister’s lack of self-control. 
In a long letter she pointed out the need of charity 
in sexual matters; so little is known about them; it 
is hard enough for those who are personally touched 
to judge; then how futile must be the verdict of Society. 
“I don’t say there is no standard, for that would destroy 
morality; only that there can be no standard until our 
impulses are classified and better understood.” Helen 
thanked her for her kind letter — rather a curious reply. 
She moved south again, and spoke of wintering in 
Naples. 

Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. 
Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There 
were still moments when it pained him. Had he only 
known that Margaret was awaiting him — Margaret, so 
lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive — he would 
have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of group- 
ing the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with 
another episode that had taken place in the days of his 
bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for 
which he was heartily sorry, and he could not see that 
those oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in 
another’s dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity were 


Established in Ducie Street 


3i7 


as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only 
moral teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter 
into his calculations at all, for poor old Ruth had never 
found him out. 

His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her 
cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked 
to see her reading poetry or something about social 
questions; it distinguished her from the wives of other 
men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book 
up and was ready to do what he wished. Then they 
would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him 
in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew really 
serious, she gave in. Man is for war, woman for the 
recreation of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if 
she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real 
battle, having no muscles, only nerves. Nerves make 
her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be 
married fashionably. The warrior may well allow her 
to triumph on such occasions; they move not the im- 
perishable plinth of things that touch his peace. 

Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during 
the honeymoon. He told her — casually, as was his 
habit — that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her 
annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not 
been consulted. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “ Be- 
sides, I have only heard for certain this morning.” 

“Where are we to live?” said Margaret, trying to 
laugh. “I loved the place extraordinarily. Don’t 
you believe in having a permanent home, Henry?” 

He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is 
home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner. 
But he did not believe in a damp home. 


318 


Howards End 


“This is news. I never heard till this minute that 
Oniton was damp.” 

“My dear girl!” — he flung out his hand — “have you 
eyes? have you a skin? How could it be anything but 
damp in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange 
is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have 
been; then there ’s that detestable little river, steaming 
all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; lookup 
under the eaves. Ask Sir James or any one. Those 
Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible 
place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my 
part, I think the country is too far from London, and 
the scenery nothing special.” 

Margaret could not resist saying, “Why did you go 
there, then?” 

“I — because — ” He drew his head back and grew 
rather angry. “Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it 
comes to that? One might go on asking such questions 
indefinitely. ” 

One might; but he was only gaining time for a plaus- 
ible answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon 
as it was spoken. 

“The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. 
Don’t let this go any further. ” 

“Certainly not.” 

“ I should n’t like her to know that she nearly 
let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did 
I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor 
little girl ! She was so keen on it all, and would n’t 
even wait to make proper inquiries about the 
shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up — just 
like all of your sex. Well, no harm ’s done. She 
has had her country wedding, and I ’ve got rid of my 


Established in Ducie Street 319 

house to some fellows who are starting a preparatory 
school.” 

“ Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy 
living somewhere.” 

“I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?” 

Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her 
from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of 
this nomadic civilisation which is altering human 
nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal re- 
lations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. 
Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive 
no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and moun- 
tains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that 
they once exercised on character must be entrusted 
to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task! 

“It is now what?” continued Henry. “Nearly 
October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, 
and look out for something in the spring.” 

“If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as 
young as I was, for these alterations don’t suit me.” 

“But, my dear, which would you rather have — altera- 
tions or rheumatism?” 

“I see your point,” said Margaret, getting up. “If 
Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be 
inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us 
look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and 
not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand 
this time. These endless moves must be bad for the 
furniture, and are certainly expensive.” 

“What a practical little woman it is! What ’s it been 
reading? Theo — theo — how much?” 

“Theosophy.” 

So Ducie Street was her first fate — a pleasant enough 


320 


Howards End 


fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham 
Place, trained her for the immense establishment that 
was promised in the spring. They were frequently 
away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the 
morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich — 
a relic this of some prehistoric craving — was always 
cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sand- 
wich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he 
grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was 
the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, 
and several kettles of Helen’s to keep on the boil. Her 
conscience pricked her a little about the Basts ; she was 
not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard 
was worth helping, but being Henry’s wife, she preferred 
to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion 
societies, they attracted her less and less. She began 
to “miss” new movements, and to spend her spare time 
re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her 
Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her mar- 
riage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her 
not to travel further from her husband than was in- 
evitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had 
outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to 
>s a pity not to keep up with 



some closing of the gates is 


inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become 
a creative 



CHAPTER XXXII 


A Piece of News 

She was looking at plans one day in the following 
spring — they had finally decided to go down into Sussex 
and build — when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. 

“Have you heard the news?” Dolly cried, as soon as 
she entered the room. Charles is so ang — I mean he is 
sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don’t know.” 

“Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her. 
“Here ’s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?” 

Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a 
great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis 
Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had 
tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older 
inhabitants, had said — Charles had said — the tax- 
collector had said — Charles had regretted not saying — 
and she closed the description with, “But lucky you, 
with four courts of your own at Midhurst.” 

“It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret. 

“Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing 
them?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Charles has never seen the plans.” 

“They have only just arrived. Here is the ground 
321 


21 


322 


Howards End 


floor — no, that ’s rather difficult. Try the elevation. 
We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque 
sky-line.” 

“What makes it smell so funny?” said Dolly, after 
a moment’s inspection. She was incapable of under- 
standing plans or maps. 

“I suppose the paper.” 

“And which way up is it?” 

“Just the ordinary way up. That ’s the sky-line » 
and the part that smells strongest is the sky.” 

“Well, ask me another. Margaret — oh — what was 
I going to say? How ’s Helen?” 

“Quite well.” 

“Is she never coming back to England? Every one 
thinks it ’s awfully odd she does n’t.” 

“So it is,” said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexa- 
tion. She was getting rather sore on this point. “ Helen 
is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months.” 

“But hasn’t she any address?” 

“A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her ad- 
dress. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you.” 

“ No, don’t bother. That ’s eight months she has been 
away, surely?” 

“Exactly. She left just after Evie’s wedding. It 
would be eight months.” 

“Just when baby was born, then?” 

“Just so.” 

Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing- 
room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and 
good looks. The Charles’s were not well off, for Mr. 
Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive 
tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. 
After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet 


A Piece of News 


323 


another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and 
they would have to give up the motor. Margaret 
sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little 
imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox 
to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed 
again, and at last the particular grievance was remem- 
bered. “Oh, yes,” she cried, “that is it: Miss Avery 
has been unpacking your packing-cases.” 

“Why has she done that? How unnecessary!” 
i “Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.” 

“I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the 
things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire.” 

“It was far more than an air,” said Dolly solemnly. 
“The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent 
me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you 
don’t know.” 

“Books!” cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. 
“Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our 
books?” 

“Hasn’t she, though! What used to be the hall’s 
full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew 
of it.” 

“ I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can 
have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about 
it at once. Some of the books are my brother’s, and 
are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the 
cases.” 

“I say she ’s dotty. She was the one that never got 
married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps, she thinks 
your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids 
are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us 
all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with 
Evie.” 


324 


Howards End 


“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Margaret. A visit 
from Dolly had its compensations. 

“ Did n’t you know she gave Evie a present last 
August, and Evie returned it, and then — oh, goloshes! 
You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote.” 

“ But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It was n’t 
like her to do such a heartless thing.” 

“But the present was so expensive.” 

“Why does that make any difference, Dolly?” 

“Still, when it costs over five pounds — I didn’t 
see it, but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond 
Street shop. You can’t very well accept that kind of 
thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?” 

“You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you 
were married.” 

“Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff — not worth 
a halfpenny. Evie’s was quite different. You ’d have 
to ask any one to the wedding who gave you a pendant 
like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and father and 
Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four 
men agree, what is a girl to do? Evie did n’t want to 
upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter 
best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to 
save Miss Avery trouble.” 

“But Miss Avery said ” 

Dolly’s eyes grew round. “It was a perfectly 
awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. 
In the end she had the pendant back again from the 
shop and threw it into the duck-pond.” 

“Did she give any reasons?” 

“We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and 
so climb into society.” 

“She ’s rather old for that,” said Margaret pensively. 


A Piece of News 


325 


‘ May she not have given the present to Evie in remem- 
brance of her mother?” 

“That ’s a notion. Give every one their due, eh? 
Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, 
Mr. Muff — you want a new coat, but I don’t know who ’ll 
give it you, I ’m sure;” and addressing her apparel 
with mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room. 

Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew 
about Miss Avery’s rudeness. 

“Oh yes.” 

“I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after 
the house.” 

“But she’s only a farm woman,” said Dolly, and 
her explanation proved correct. Henry only censured 
the lower classes when it suited him. He bore with 
Miss Avery as with Crane — because he could get good 
value out of them. 1 ‘ I have patience with a man who 
knows his job,” he would say, really having patience 
with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may 
sound, he had something of the artist about him; he 
would pass over an insult to his daughter sooner than 
lose a good charwoman for his wife. 

Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble 
herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry’s 
permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery, 
asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the 
first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, 
intending to repack her belongings and store them 
properly in the local warehouse; the plan had been 
amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany 
her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So, 
for the second time in her life, she entered the house 
alone. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 

The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of 
unclouded happiness that she was to have for many 
months. Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary 
absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush 
with Miss Avery — that only gave zest to the expedition. 
She had also eluded Dolly’s invitation to luncheon. 
Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the 
village green and entered the long chestnut avenue that 
connects it with the church. The church itself stood 
in the village once. But it there attracted so many 
worshippers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from 
its foundations, and poised it on an inconvenient knoll, 
three quarters of a mile away. If this story is true, 
the chestnut avenue must have been planted by the 
angels. No more tempting approach could be imagined 
for the lukewarm Christian, and if he still finds the 
walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science 
having built Holy Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the 
Charles’s and roofed it with tin. 

Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to 
watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches 
of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the 
326 


Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 327 

lower branches. Why has not England a great mytho- 
logy? Our folklore has never advanced beyond dainti- 
ness, and the greater melodies about our country-side 
have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and 
true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have 
failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the 
fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer 
field, or give names to half a dozen stars. England 
still waits for the supreme moment of her literature — 
for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still 
for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass 
into our common talk. • 

At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut 
avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which 
led into the untouched country. She followed it for 
over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having 
no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, 
taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the 
view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates 
that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less ob- 
trusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither 
aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, 
but Margaret knew what it was not : it was not snobbish. 
Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of 
freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, 
and the distant brow of the Chiltems towered like a 
mountain. “Left to itself,” was Margaret’s opinion, 
“this county would vote Liberal.” The comradeship, 
not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was 
promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called 
for the key. 

But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A 
most finished young person received her. “Yes, Mrs. 


328 


Howards End 


Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie 
received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up 
to your little place at the present moment. Shall I 
send the servant to direct you?’’ Followed by: “Of 
course, auntie does not generally look after your place; 
she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something 
exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends 
quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me 
sometimes, “Where ’s auntie?’ I say, ‘Need you ask? 
She ’s at Howards End.’ Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. 
Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of 
cake? Not if I cut it for you?” 

Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this 
gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery’s niece. 

“I cannot let you go on alone. Now don’t. You 
really must n’t. I will direct you myself if it comes to 
that. I must get my hat. Now” — roguishly — “Mrs. 
Wilcox, don’t you move while I ’m gone.” 

Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best 
parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. 
But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they 
conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here 
had lived an elder race, to which we look back with dis- 
quietude. The country which we visit at week-ends 
was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, 
the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have 
their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All 
was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The 
thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder- 
rose. Some children were playing uproariously in 
heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness 
at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her 
a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if 


Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 329 

anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, 
group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal 
youth, connect — connect without bitterness until all 
men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted 
by the return of Miss Avery’s niece, and were so tran- 
quillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. 

It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after 
due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was 
now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up 
to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal 
sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. 
But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. 
The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling 
the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over 
Evie’s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, 
in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over 
the land and then fell silent. “Georgie,” sang the 
thrush. “Cuckoo,” came furtively from the cliff of 
pine-trees. “Georgie, pretty Georgie,” and the other 
birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half- 
painted picture which would be finished in a few days. 
Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and prim- 
roses in the defended hollows ; the wild rose-bushes, still 
bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise 
of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, 
yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who 
walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces 
before her and the zephyr behind. 

The two women walked up the lane full of outward 
civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it 
was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and 
the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, 
they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of ‘ ‘ Auntie ! ’ ’ 


330 Howards End 

severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door 
was locked. 

“Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?” asked 
Margaret. 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here 
daily. ” 

Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room 
window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So 
with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance 
of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember 
their being there on her other visit; her impression 
was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They 
tried the back. Here again they received no answer, 
and could see nothing; the kitchen- window was fitted 
with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces 
of wood propped up against them, which looked omi- 
nously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought 
of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the 
first cry she succeeded. 

“Well, well!” replied some one inside the house. “ If 
it is n’t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!” 

“Have you got the key, auntie?” 

“Madge, go away,” said Miss Avery, still invisible. 

“Auntie, it’s Mrs. Wilcox ” 

Margaret supported her. “Your niece and I have 
come together ” 

“ Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat. ” 

The poor woman went red. “Auntie gets more 
eccentric lately,” she said nervously. 

“Miss Avery!” called Margaret. “I have come 
about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the voice, “of course.” 
But after that came silence. They called again 


Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 331 

without response. They walked round the house dis- 
consolately. 

“I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret. 

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” said Madge, “perhaps 
I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing 
to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times.” Gathering 
up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her 
departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened 
at once. 

Miss Avery said, “Wellcome right in, Mrs. Wilcox!” 
quite pleasantly and calmly. 

“Thank you so much,” began Margaret, but broke 
off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. 

“Come right into the hall first,” said Miss Avery. 
She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of 
despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The 
hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from 
Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big 
work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases 
filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father’s 
sword — this is what bewildered her particularly — had 
been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst 
the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked 
for days. 

“I ’m afraid this isn’t what we meant,” she began. 
“Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be 
touched. For instance, these books are my brother’s. 
We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is 
abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after 
things, we never expected you to do so much. ” 

“The house has been empty long enough,” said the 
old woman. 

Margaret refused to argue. “I dare say we didn’t 


332 


Howards End 


explain, ” she said civilly. “It has been a mistake, and 
very likely our mistake.” 

“Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake 
for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she 
would not desire it to stand empty any longer.” 

To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: 

“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox’s house, the mother of Mr. Charles.” 

“Mistake upon mistake, ” said Miss Avery. “ Mistake 
upon mistake.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Margaret, sitting down 
in one of her own chairs. “I really don’t know what’s 
to be done.” She could not help laughing. 

The other said: “Yes, it should be a merry house 
enough.” 

“I don’t know — I dare say. Well, thank you very 
much, Miss Avery. Yes, that ’s all right. Delightful.” 

“There is still the parlour.” She went through the 
door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the 
drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. “And 
the dining-room.” More curtains were drawn, more 
windows were flung open to the spring. “Then through 
here — ” Miss Avery continued passing and repass- 
ing through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Mar- 
garet heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. “I ’ve 
not finished here yet,” she announced, returning. 
“There ’s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry 
your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to 
go into expense at Hilton. ” 

“It is all a mistake,” repeated Margaret, feeling 
that she must put her foot down. “A misunderstand- 
ing. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards 
End.” 

“Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?” 


333 


Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 

“We have settled to build a new home for ourselves 
in Sussex, and part of this furniture— my part— will 
go down there presently.’ ’ She looked at Miss Avery 
intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. 
Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles 
were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of 
scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. 

“You think that you won’t come back to live here, 
Mrs. Wilcox, but you will.” 

“That remains to be seen,” said Margaret, smiling. 
“We have no intention of doing so for the present. 
We happen to need a much larger house. Circum- 
stances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some 
day — one never knows, does one?” 

Miss Avery retorted: “Some day! Tcha! tcha! 
Don’t talk about some day. You are living here now.” 

“Am I?” 

“You are living here, and have been for the last ten 
minutes, if you ask me.” 

It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling 
of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt 
that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went 
into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in 
upon her mother’s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many 
an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture 
fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room — over 
the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years 
ago — Miss Avery had placed Tibby’s old bassinette. 

“The nursery, ” she said. 

Margaret turned away without speaking. 

At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby 
were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far 
as she could make out, nothing had been broken or 


334 


Howards End 


scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then 
they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone 
wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, 
and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. 
And Evie’s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie 
was responsible for Miss Avery’s oddness. But Margaret 
suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl’s 
silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. 

“ It ’s a beautiful meadow,” she remarked. It was one 
of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, 
hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So 
the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right 
angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex — 
a sort of powder-closet for the cows. 

“Yes, the maidy’s well enough,” said Miss Avery, 
“for those, that is, who don’t suffer from sneezing.” 
And she cackled maliciously. “I ’ve seen Charlie 
Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time — oh, they ought 
to do this — they must n’t do that — he ’d learn them to 
be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He has 
it from his father, with other things. There ’s not one 
Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June — I 
laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth.” 

“My brother gets hay fever too,” said Margaret. 

“This house lies too much on the land for them. 
Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first. 
But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you ’ve 
found.” 

Margaret laughed. 

“They keep a place going, don’t they? Yes, it is 
just that.” 

“They keep England going, it is my opinion.” 

But Miss Avery upset her by replying: “Ay, they 


Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 335 

breed like rabbits. Well, well, it ’s a funny world. 
But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I 
suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it 
is n’t for us to repine.” 

“They breed and they also work,” said Margaret, 
conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was 
echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. 
“It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like 
my husband and his sons govern it, I think it ’ll never 
be a bad one — never really bad. ” 

“No, better ’n nothing,” said Miss Avery, and turned 
to the wych-elm. 

On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old 
friend much more clearly than before. In the house 
Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished 
the first wife from the second. Now she said: “I never 
saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we 
stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. 
Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let any one 
be turned away without food. Then it was never 
* Trespassers will be prosecuted ’ in their land, but would 
people please not come in? Mrs. Howard was never 
created to run a farm.” 

“Had they no men to help them?” Margaret asked. 

Miss Avery replied: “Things went on until there were 
no men.” 

“Until Mr. Wilcox came along,” corrected Margaret, 
anxious that her husband should receive his dues. 

“I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a — no 
disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were 
intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him 
first or no.” 

“Whom should she have married?” 


336 Howards End 

“A soldier!” exclaimed the old woman. “Some real 
soldier.” 

Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry’s 
character far more trenchant than any of her own. 
She felt dissatisfied. 

“But that ’s all over,” she went on. “A better time 
is coming now, though you ’ve kept me long enough 
waiting. In a couple of weeks I ’ll see your light 
shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you 
ordered in coals?” 

“We are not coming,” said Margaret firmly. She 
respected Miss Avery too much to humour her. “No. 
Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. 
The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very 
sorry, but I am making other arrangements, and must 
ask you to give me the keys.” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox,” said Miss Avery, and 
resigned her duties with a smile. 

Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her 
compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the 
station. She had intended to go to the furniture ware- 
house and give directions for removal, but the muddle 
had turned out more extensive than she expected, so 
she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she 
did this. He was strongly against employing the local 
man whom he had previously recommended, and advised 
her to store in London after all. 

But before this could be done an unexpected trouble 
fell upon her. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

Helen’s “Madness” 

It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley’s health 
had been bad all winter. She had had a long series 
of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid 
of them. She had scarcely promised her niece “to 
really take my tiresome chest in hand, ” when she caught 
a chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and 
Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed 
for, and that spring party that after all gathered in 
that hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. 
On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, 
and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest 
of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through 
the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness 
of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws 
no light upon another; the groping inquiry must begin 
anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise, but we 
know that no generality is possible about those whom 
we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one 
oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out 
of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having 
stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could 
not rise to the occasion, or realise the great mystery 
337 


338 


Howards End 


which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her 
that she was quite done up — more done up than ever 
before; that she saw and heard and felt less every 
moment ; and that, unless something changed, she would 
soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to 
plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? 
were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She wor- 
ried herself about Helen’s absence, and also that she 
should be the cause of Helen’s return. The nurses 
seemed to think such interests quite natural, and per- 
haps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. 
But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; 
whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process 
can be trivial and hideous. 

“Important — Margaret dear, take the Lulworth 
when Helen comes.” 

“Helen won’t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has 
telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. 
She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well.” 

‘ ‘ How very odd of Helen ! Mr. Wilcox ’ ’ 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Can he spare you?” 

Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. 
Yet again Margaret said so. 

Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a 
more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on 
the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, 
as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of 
danger. 

“Margaret — important,” it went on: “I should like 
you to have some companion to take walks with. Do 
try Miss Conder.” 

“I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder.” 


339 


Helen’s “Madness” 

"But she is not really interesting. If only you had 
Helen.” 

“I have Tibby, Aunt Juley. ” 

“No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real com- 
panion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd.” 

“Helen is odd, very,” agreed Margaret. 

“Not content with going abroad, why does she want 
to go back there at once?” 

“No doubt she will change her mind when she sees 
us. She has not the least balance.” 

That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Mar- 
garet’s voice trembled as she made it. By now she 
was deeply pained at her sister’s behaviour. It may be 
unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight 
months argues that the heart is awry as well as the 
head. A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf 
to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she 
would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste 
restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become 
dull and infrequent ; she had no wants and no curiosity. 
And it was all put down to poor Henry’s account! 
Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too in- 
famous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, 
and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace 
the growth of morbidity back in Helen’s life for nearly 
four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced 
patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the 
Downs — all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy 
whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. Mar- 
garet and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss 
again. Foolishly — the real danger was reaction. Re- 
action against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life 
until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had 


340 Howards End 

an idSe fixe. What hope was there for her as an old 
woman? 

The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed 
she became. For many months she had put the subject 
away, but it was too big to be slighted now. There 
was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen’s 
actions to be governed by a tiny mishap, such as may 
happen to any young man or woman? Can human 
nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The 
blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital. 
It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; 
it was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than 
reason or books. In one of her moods Helen had con- 
fessed that she still “enjoyed” it in a certain sense. 
Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress endured. 
And where there is enjoyment of the past there may 
also be reaction — propagation at both ends. 

Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such 
seed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed. 
But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfer- 
ing the earth, and heedless of the growths within himself. 
He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it 
to the specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner 
to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to 
digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more 
patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded 
— so far as success is yet possible. She does understand 
herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own 
growth. Whether Helen has succeeded one cannot say. 

The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen’s letter arrived. 
She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London 
herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting letter, 
though the opening was affectionate and sane. 


Helen’s “Madness” 


34i 


“ Dearest Meg, 

“Give Helen’s love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that 
I love, and have loved her ever since I can remember. 
I shall be in London Thursday. 

“My address will be care of the bankers. I have not 
yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and 
give me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much better, 
or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming 
down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do 
not come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am 
living abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly 
as possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture 
is? I should like to take out one or two books; the rest 
are for you. 

“Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like 
rather a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your 
loving 

“Helen.” 

It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to 
tell a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in 
danger her sister would come. Unhealthiness is con- 
tagious. We cannot be in contact with those who are 
in a morbid state without ourselves deteriorating. To 
“act for the best” might do Helen good, but would do 
herself harm, and, at the risk of disaster, she kept her 
colours flying a little longer. She replied that their 
aunt was much better, and awaited developments. 

Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he 
was a pleasanter companion than before. Oxford had 
done much for him. He had lost his peevishness, and 
could hide his indifference to people and his interest in 
food. But he had not grown more human. The years 


342 


Howards End 


between eighteen and twenty- two, so magical for most, 
were leading him gently from boyhood to middle age. 
He had never known young-manliness, that quality 
which warms the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox 
an imperishable charm. He was frigid, through no fault 
of his own, and without cruelty. He thought Helen 
wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was 
for him what a scene behind footlights is for most people. 
He had only one suggestion to make, and that was 
characteristic. 

“Why don’t you tell Mr. Wilcox?” 

“About Helen?” 

“Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing.” 

“He would do all he could, but ” 

“Oh, you know best. But he is practical.” 

It was the student’s belief in experts. Margaret 
demurred for one or two reasons. Presently Helen’s 
answer came. She sent a telegram requesting the 
address of the furniture, as she would now return at 
once. Margaret replied, “Certainly not; meet me at 
the bankers’ at four.” She and Tibby went up to 
London. Helen was not at the bankers’, and they were 
refused her address. Helen had passed into chaos. 

Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was 
all that she had left, and never had he seemed more 
unsubstantial. 

“Tibby love, what next?” 

He replied: “It is extraordinary.” 

“Dear, your judgment’s often clearer than mine. 
Have you any notion what ’s at the back?” 

“None, unless it ’s something mental.” 

“Oh — that!” said Margaret. “Quite impossible.” 
But the suggestion had been uttered, and in a few 


Helen’s “Madness” 


343 


minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. 
And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off 
the city, and she saw it for what it really is — a caricature 
of infinity. The familiar barriers, the streets along 
which she moved, the houses between which she had 
made her little journeys for so many years, became 
negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy 
trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of mud. 
She had accomplished a hideous act of renunciation 
and returned to the One. Margaret’s own faith held 
firm. She knew the human soul will be merged, if it be 
merged at all, with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt 
that her sister had been going amiss for many years. 
It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on 
a London afternoon, while rain fell slowly. 

Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He 
might know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden 
from them, and she determined to take Tibby’s advice 
and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call 
at his office. He could not well make it worse. She 
went for a few moments into St. Paul's, whose dome 
stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the 
gospel of form. But within, St. Paul’s is as its sur- 
roundings — echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, in- 
visible mosaics, wet footmarks, crossing and recrossing 
the floor. Si monumentum requiris, circumspice ; it points 
us back to London. There was no hope of Helen here. 

Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had 
expected. He was overjoyed to see her back from 
Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. 
When they told him of their search, he only chaffed 
Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it 
was “just like Helen” to lead her relatives a dance. 


344 


Howards End 


“That is what we all say,” replied Margaret. “But 
why should it be just like Helen? Why should she 
be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?” 

“Don’t ask me. I ’m a plain man of business. I 
live and let live. My advice to you both is, don’t 
worry. Margaret, you ’ve got black marks again under 
your eyes. You know that ’s strictly forbidden. First 
your aunt — then your sister. No, we are n’t going to 
have it. Are we, Theobald?” He rang the bell. “I ’ll 
give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie 
Street. I can’t have my girl looking as old as her 
husband.” 

“All the same, you have not quite seen our point,” 
said Tibby. 

Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, “I 
don’t suppose I ever shall.” He leant back, laugh- 
ing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire 
flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned 
to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed 
her. 

“ Margaret’s point is this, ” he said. “Our sister may 
be mad.” 

Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked 
round. 

“Come in, Charles,” said Margaret kindly. “Could 
you help us at all? We are again in trouble.” 

“ I ’m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are 
all mad more or less, you know, in these days. ” 

“The facts are as follows,” replied Tibby, who had 
at times a pedantic lucidity. “The facts are that she 
has been in England for three days and will not see us. 
She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. 
She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her 


Helen’s “Madness” 


345 


letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are 
the most striking.” 

“She has never behaved like this before, then?” asked 
Henry. 

“Of course not!” said his wife, with a frown. 

“Well, my dear, how am I to know?” 

A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. “You 
know quite well that Helen never sins against affection,” 
she said. “You must have noticed that much in her, 
surely.” 

“Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together.” 

“No, Henry — can’t you see? — I don’t mean that.” 

She recovered herself, but not before Charles had 
observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching 
the scene. 

“I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the 
past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. 
She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, 
or wanted to help them. There ’s no possible excuse 
for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that 
is why I am sure that she is not well. ‘Mad’ is too 
terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never 
believe it. I should n’t discuss my sister with you 
if I thought she was well — trouble you about her, I 
mean.” 

Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him 
something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he 
could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. 
The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one 
could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife 
was seized, he had promised to take her down into 
Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing- 
home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that 


346 


Howards End 


he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning 
as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. 

“You want to get hold of her?” he said. “That ’s 
the problem, is n’t it? She has got to see a doctor.” 

“For all I know she has seen one already.” 

“Yes, yes; don’t interrupt.” He rose to his feet 
and thought intently. The genial, tentative host 
disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had 
carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought 
forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. “I ’ve 
got it,” he said at last. “It ’s perfectly easy. Leave 
it to me. We ’ll send her down to Howards End.” 

“How will you do that?” 

“After her books. Tell her that she must unpack 
them herself. Then you can meet her there.” 

“But, Henry, that ’s just what she won’t let me do. 
It ’s part of her — whatever it is — never to see me.” 

“Of course you won’t tell her you ’re going. When 
she is there, looking at the cases, you ’ll just stroll in. 
If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But 
there ’ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run 
her to a specialist in no time.” 

Margaret shook her head. “It ’s quite impossible. ’’ 

“Why?” 

“It doesn’t seem impossible to me,” said Tibby; 
“it is surely a very tippy plan.” 

“It is impossible, because — ” She looked at her 
husband sadly. “It’s not the particular language 
that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would 
do splendidly for other people, whom I don’t blame.” 

“But Helen doesn’t talk,” said Tibby. “That’s 
our whole difficulty. She won’t talk your particular 
language, and on that account you think she ’s ill.” 


Helen’s “Madness” 


347 


“No, Henry; it ’s sweet of you, but I could n’t.” 

“I see,” he said; “you have scruples.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“And sooner than go against them you would have 
your sister suffer. You could have got her down to 
Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples 
are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, 
I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is 
a question of madness- ” 

“I deny it ’s madness.” 

“You said just now ” 

“ It ’s madness when I say it, but not when you say it. ” 

Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Margaret! Mar- 
garet ! ” he groaned. “No education can teach a woman 
logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you 
want me to help you or not? ” 

“Not in that way.” 

“Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. 
Do ” 

Charles surprised them by interrupting. “Pater, 
we may as well keep Howards End out of it,” he said. 

“Why, Charles?” 

Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as 
if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed 
between them. 

“The whole house is at sixes and sevens,” he said 
crossly. “We don’t want any more mess.” 

“Who’s ‘we’?” asked his father. “My boy, pray 
who ’s ‘we’?” 

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Charles. “I 
appear always to be intruding.” 

By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned 
her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. 


348 


Howards End 


He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory 
conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, 
flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she 
was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might 
hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. 
She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband’s 
dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards 
End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 p.m., 
when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was 
a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen 
would think she was offended. And on Monday next 
she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then 
ambush themselves in the garden. 

After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: “I 
can’t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret ’s 
too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her.” 

Charles made no answer. 

“Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?” 

“No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger 
business than you reckon. ” 

“How?” 

“Don’t ask me.” 


CHAPTER XXXV 

The Trap Is Set 

One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that 
are her true children have only one mood; they are all 
full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling 
of birds. New flowers may come out, the green em- 
broidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven 
broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, 
seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. 
The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, 
and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the 
scales of a single balance. Time might never have 
moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his 
schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he 
saw her through a veil of tears. 

She protested no more. Whether Henry was right 
or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other 
standard by which to judge him. She must trust him 
absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, 
his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest 
indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be 
staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. 

They went down in the morning as arranged, and he 
discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. 

349 


350 


Howards End 


On his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the 
village, and had a few minutes’ serious conversation 
with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not 
know — perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after 
lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had 
taken a fly to Howards End. 

“She was bound to drive,” said Henry. “There will 
be her books.” 

“I cannot make it out,” said Margaret for the 
hundredth time. 

“Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off.” 

“Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty,” 
said Dolly. 

Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her 
eyes. Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which 
he did not answer. In the silence the motor came round 
to the door. 

“You ’re not fit for it,” he said anxiously. “Let me 
go alone. I know exactly what to do.” 

“Oh yes, I am fit,” said Margaret, uncovering her 
face. “Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel 
that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams 
seem to have come from some one else. Her voice is n’t 
in them. I don’t believe your driver really saw her 
at the station. I wish I ’d never mentioned it. I know 
that Charles is vexed. Yes, he is — ” She seized 
Dolly’s hand and kissed it. “There, Dolly will forgive 
me. There. Now we ’ll be off. ” 

Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not 
like this breakdown. 

“Don’t you want to tidy yourself?” he asked. 

“Have I time?” 

“Yes, plenty.” 


The Trap Is Set 351 

She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as 
soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly : 

“Dolly, I’m going without her.” 

Dolly’s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She 
followed him on tiptoe out to the car. 

“Tell her I thought it best.” 

“Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see.” 

“Say anything you like. All right.” 

The car started well, and with ordinary luck would 
have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing 
in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the 
middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran 
one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. 
Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and 
was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a 
single word ; he was only treating her as she had treated 
Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to 
indicate what Helen would feel against them. She 
thought, “I deserve it; I am punished for lowering my 
colours.” And she accepted his apologies with a calm- 
ness that astonished him. 

“I still consider you are not fit for it,” he kept 
saying. 

“Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing 
is spread clearly before me now.” 

“I was meaning to act for the best.” 

“Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes 
one ’s hair so.” 

“Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?” 

“Look! My hands have stopped trembling.” 

“And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her 
cab should already have arrived at Howards End. 
(We ’re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move 


352 


Howards End 


will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, 
one does n’t want a scene before servants. A certain 
gentleman” — he pointed at Crane’s back — “won’t 
drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, 
behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the 
house?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, they aren’t wanted. Do you remember how 
the house stands?” 

“Yes.” 

“If we don’t find her in the porch, we can stroll 
round into the garden. Our object ” 

Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. 

“I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our 
main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, 
as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite 
natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently 
nervous — wouldn’t you say so, Margaret?” 

The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions 
about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything 
congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that 
was likely to alienate her from her family? 

“Nothing,” answered Margaret, wondering what 
would have happened if she had added: “Though she 
did resent my husband’s immorality.” 

“She always was highly strung,” pursued Henry, 
leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. “A 
tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing 
serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say 
normal — a very charming girl.” 

Margaret’s anger and terror increased every moment. 
How dare these men label her sister! What horrors 
lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the 


353 


The Trap Is Set 

name of science! The pack was turning on Helen, 
to deny her human rights, and it seemed to Margaret 
that all Schlegels were threatened with her. “Were 
they normal?’’ What a question to ask! And it is 
always those who know nothing about human nature, 
who are bored by psychology and shocked by physiology, 
who ask it. However piteous her sister’s state, she 
knew that she must be on her side. They would be 
mad together if the world chose to consider them so. 

It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed 
down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery 
was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had 
gone past. She nodded, and the next moment they 
caught sight of it, at the end of the lane. The car ran 
silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen 
that she was sitting in the porch, with her back to the 
road. She had come. Only her head and shoulders 
were visible. She sat framed in the vine, and one of 
her hands played with the buds. The wind ruffled her 
hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she had always been. 

Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her 
husband could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran 
to the garden gate, which was shut, passed through 
it, and deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise 
alarmed Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an un- 
familiar movement, and, rushing into the porch, learnt 
the simple explanation of all their fears — her sister was 
with child. 

“Is the truant all right?” called Henry. 

She had time to whisper: “Oh, my darling—” The 
keys of the house were in her hand. She unlocked 
Howards End and thrust Helen into it. “Yes, all 
right,” she said, and stood with her back to the door. 

23 


CHAPTER XXXVI., 


The Scandal Is Out 

“Margaret, you look upset!” said Henry. 

Mansbridge had followed. Crane was at the gate, 
and the flyman had stood up on the box. Margaret 
shook her head at them; she could not speak any more. 
She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future 
depended on them. Henry was asking more questions. 
She shook her head again. His words had no sense. 
She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. “You 
might have given me a knock with the gate, ” was another 
of his remarks. Presently she heard herself speaking. 
She, or some one for her, said, “ Go away.” Henry came 
nearer. He repeated, “Margaret, you look upset again. 
My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with 
Helen?” 

“Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all.” 
"“Manage what?” 

He stretched out his hand for the keys She might 
have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor. 

“Stop that at least,” she said piteously; the doctor 
had turned back, and was questioning the driver of 
Helen’s cab. A new feeling came over her; she was 
fighting for women against men. She did not care about 
354 


The Scandal Is Out 


355 

rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be 
over her body. 

“Come, this is an odd beginning,” said her husband. 

The doctor came forward now, and whispered two 
words to Mr. Wilcox — the scandal was out. Sincerely 
horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. 

“ I cannot help it, ” said Margaret. “Do wait. It’s 
not my fault. Please all four of you go away now.” 

Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. 

“We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox,” 
said the young doctor. “Could you go in and per- 
suade your sister to come out?” 

“On what grounds?” said Margaret, suddenly looking 
him straight in the eyes. 

Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured 
something about a nervous breakdown. 

“I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. 
You are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mans- 
bridge. If we require your services, we will let you 
know.” 

“I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,” 
he retorted. 

“You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, 
not qualified to attend my sister.” 

“Come, come, Margaret!” said Henry, never raising 
his eyes. “This is a terrible business, an appalling 
business. It’s doctor’s orders. Open the door.” 

“Forgive me, but I will not.” 

“I don’t agree.” 

Margaret was silent. 

“This business is as broad as it ’s long,” contributed 
the doctor. “We had better all work together. You 
need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you.” 


356 


Howards End 


“ Quite so,” said Henry. 

“I do not need you in the least,” said Margaret. 

The two men looked at each other anxiously. 

“No more does my sister, who is still many weeks 
from her confinement.” 

“Margaret, Margaret!” 

“Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possi- 
ble use is he now?” 

Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a 
vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the 
doctor. He himself might need support, for there was 
trouble ahead. 

“It all turns on affection now,” said Margaret. 
“Affection. Don’t you see?” Resuming her usual 
methods, she wrote the word on the house with her 
finger. “Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you 
not so much. Mr. Mansbridge does n’t know her. 
That *s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives 
rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr. Mans- 
bridge. It’s a useful formula.” 

Henry told her to be calm. 

“You don’t know what you want yourselves,” said 
Margaret, folding her arms. “For one sensible remark 
I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would 
trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. 
I ’ll stand here all the day sooner.” 

“Mansbridge,” said Henry in a low voice, “perhaps 
not now.” 

The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, 
Crane also went back into the car. 

“Now, Henry, you,” she said gently. None of her 
bitterness had been directed at him. “Go away now, 
dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive 


The Scandal Is Out 


357 

me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must 
go.” 

He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. 
Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. 

“I shall soon find you down at Dolly' ’s,” she called, 
as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly 
moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a 
little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A 
string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she 
waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all 
was over and the car had started, she opened the door. 
“Oh, my darling!” she said. “My darling, forgive 
me.” Helen was standing in the hall. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

Helen’s Whim 

Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she 
would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified 
voice, that came strangely from her, said: 

“Convenient! You did not tell me that the books 
were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that 
I want.” 

“I told you nothing that was true. ” 

“It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt 
Juley been ill?” 

“Helen, you wouldn’t think I ’d invent that?” 

“I suppose not, ” said Helen, turning away, and crying 
a very little. “But one loses faith in everything after 
this.” 

“We thought it was illness, but even then — I 
haven’t behaved worthily.” 

Helen selected another book. 

“I ought not to have consulted any one. What would 
our father have thought of me? ” 

She did not think of questioning her sister, or of 
rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, 
but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that 
Helen could have committed — that want of confidence 
that is the work of the devil. 

358 


Helen’s Whim 


359 


“Yes, I am annoyed,” replied Helen. “My wishes 
should have been respected. I would have gone through 
this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley 
recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as 
I now have to do ” 

“Come away from those books,” called Margaret. 
“Helen, do talk to me.” 

“I was just saying that I have stopped living hap- 
hazard. One can’t go through a great deal of — ” she 
left out the noun — “without planning one’s actions 
in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and 
in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, 
are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, 
but only then. In the second place I have no right to 
trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know 
it. I have done something that the English never 
pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. 
So I must live where I am not known.” 

“But why did n’t you tell me, dearest?” 

“Yes,” replied Helen judicially. “I might have, but 
decided to wait. ” 

“I believe you would never have told me.” 

“Oh yes, I should. We have taken a fiat in Munich.” 

Margaret glanced out of the window. 

“By ‘we’ I mean myself and Monica. But for her, 
I am and have been and always wish to be alone. ” 

“I have not heard of Monica.” 

“You wouldn’t have. She’s an Italian — by birth 
at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met 
her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best 
person to see me through.” 

“You are very fond of her, then.” 

“She has been extraordinarily sensible with me,” 


360 


Howards End 


Margaret guessed at Monica’s type — “Italiano In- 
glesiato” they had named it — the crude feminist of the 
South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen 
had turned to it in her need! 

“You must not think that we shall never meet,” 
said Helen, with a measured kindness. “I shall always 
have a room for you when you can be spared, and the 
longer you can be with me the better. But you haven’t 
understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult 
for you. This is a shock to you. It is n’t to me, who 
have been thinking over our futures for many months, 
and they won’t be changed by a slight contretemps, 
such as this. I cannot live in England.” 

“Helen, you’ve not forgiven me for my treachery. 
You could n't talk like this to me if you had.” 

“ Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all? ” She dropped 
a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, 
she said: “Tell me, how is it that all the books are down 
here?” 

“Series of mistakes.” 

“And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked.” 
“All.” 

“Who lives here, then?” 

“No one.” 

M I suppose you are letting it, though.” 

“The house is dead,” said Margaret, with a frown. 
“Why worry on about it?” 

“But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all 
my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now 
this has n’t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems 
more alive even than in the old days, when it held the 
Wilcoxes’ own things.” 

“Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, 


Helen’s Whim 


361 


I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we — but 
by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss 
Avery, instead of — ” She stopped. “Look here, 
I can’t go on like this. I warn you I won’t. Helen, 
why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply 
because you hate Henry?” 

“I don’t hate him now,” said Helen. “I have 
stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I ’m 
not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your 
English life — no, put it out of your head at once. 
Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It’s un- 
thinkable.” 

Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling 
to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not 
bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor 
confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the com- 
pany of those who would not blame her. She had been 
through — how much? Margaret did not know. But 
it was enough to part her from old habits as well as 
old friends. 

“Tell me about yourself, ” said Helen, who had chosen 
her books, and was lingering over the furniture. 

“There’s nothing to tell.” 

“But your marriage has been happy, Meg?” 

“Yes, but I don’t feel inclined to talk.” 

“You feel as I do.” 

“Not that, but I can’t.” 

“No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good 
trying.” 

Something had come between them. Perhaps it was 
Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. 
Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. 
They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered 


362 Howards End 

acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that 
affection survived. 

“Look here, Meg, is the coast clear? ” 

“You mean that you want to go away from me?” 

“I suppose so — dear old lady! it isn’t any use. I 
knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love 
to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than 
I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich 
later.” 

“Certainly, dearest.” 

“For that is all we can do.” 

It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen’s com- 
mon sense ; Monica had been extraordinarily good for her. 

“I am glad to have seen you and the things.” She 
looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying 
farewell to the past. 

Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: “The 
car has gone, and here ’s your cab.” 

She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the 
sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. 
The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, 
“Please, lady, a message,” and handed her Henry’s 
visiting-card through the bars. 

“How did this come?” she asked. 

Crane had returned with it almost at once. 

She read the card with annoyance. It was covered 
with instructions in domestic French. When she and 
her sister had talked she was to come back for the night 
to Dolly’s. II faut dormir sur ce sujet . ” While 
Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre d 
Vhdtel . The final sentence displeased her greatly 
until she remembered that the Charles’s had only one 
spare room, and so could not invite a third guest. 


Helen’s Whim 363 

“Henry would have done what he could,” she 
interpreted. 

Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door 
once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained 
in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew 
more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. 

“This is Mr. Wilcox’s house?’’ she inquired. 

“Surely you remember Howards End?’’ 

“Remember? I who remember everything! But 
it looks to be ours now.” 

“Miss Avery was extraordinary,” said Margaret, 
her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was in- 
vaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought 
her relief, and she yielded to it. “She loved Mrs. 
Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our 
things than think of it empty. In consequence here 
are all the library books. ” 

“Not all the books. She hasn’t unpacked the Art 
books, in which she may show her sense. And we 
never used to have the sword here.” 

“The sword looks well, though.” 

“Magnificent.” 

“Yes, doesn’t it?” 

“Where ’s the piano, Meg?” 

“I warehoused that in London. Why?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Curious, too, that the carpet fits.” 

“The carpet’s a mistake,” announced Helen. “I 
know that we had it in London, but this floor ought 
to be bare. It is far too beautiful. ” 

“You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would 
you care to come into the dining-room before you start? 
There ’s no carpet there.” 


364 


Howards End 


They went in, and each minute their talk became 
more natural. 

“Oh, what a place for mother’s chiffonier!” cried 
Helen. 

“Look at the chairs, though.” 

“Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, 
didn’t it?” 

“North-west.” 

“Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those 
chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs 
are quite warm.” 

“But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? 
I shall just ” 

“Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting 
will see the lawn.” 

Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. 

“Ye-es. The window ’s too high.” 

“Try a drawing-room chair.” 

“No, I don’t like the drawing-room so much. The 
beam has been match-boarded. It would have been 
so beautiful otherwise.” 

“Helen, what a memory you have for some things! 
You ’re perfectly right. It ’s a room that men have 
spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men 
don’t know what we want ” 

“And never will.” 

“I don’t agree. In two thousand years they’ll 
know.” 

“But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where 
Tibby spilt the soup.” 

“Coffee. It was coffee surely.” 

Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was 
far too young to be given coffee at that time.” 


Helen’s Whim 


365 


“Was father alive ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you ’re right and it must have been soup. I 
was thinking of much later — that unsuccessful visit 
of Aunt Juley’s, when she did n’t realise that Tibby 
had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it 
down on purpose. There was some rhyme, * Tea, 
coffee — coffee, tea, ’ that she said to him every morning 
at breakfast. Wait a minute — how did it go?” 

“I know — no, I don’t. What a detestable boy 
Tibby was!” 

“But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent 
person could put up with it.” 

“Ah, that greengage- tree, ” cried Helen, as if the 
garden was also part of their childhood. “Why do I 
connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the 
chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow- 
hammers ” 

Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she 
announced. 

“‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea, 

Or chocolaritee.’ 

“That every morning for three weeks. No wonder 
Tibby was wild.” 

“Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen. 

“There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of 
course he ’s a dear.” 

A bell rang. 

“Listen! what ’s that?” 

Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning 
the siege.” 

‘ 1 What nonsense — listen ! ’ ’ 

And the triviality faded from their faces, though it 


366 


Howards End 


left something behind — the knowledge that they never 
could be parted because their love was rooted in common 
things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they 
had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only 
made each other unhappy. And all the time their 
salvation was lying round them — the past sanctifying 
the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, de- 
claring that there would after all be a future with 
laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, 
came up to her sister. She said, “It is always Meg.” 
They looked into each other's eyes. The inner life 
had paid. 

Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the 
front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled 
between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor 
was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality 
returned. 

“Little boy, what do you want?” 

“Please, I am the milk.” 

“Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather 
sharply. 

“Yes, please.” 

“Then take it back and say we require no milk.” 
While she called to Helen, “No, it’s not the siege, but 
possibly an attempt to provision us against one. ” 

“But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it 
away?” 

“Do you? Oh, very well. But we've nothing to 
put it in, and he wants the can.” 

“Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,” 
said the boy. 

“The house will be locked up then.” 

“In the morning would I bring eggs too?” 


Helen’s Whim 367 

“Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks 
last week?” 

The child hung his head. 

“Well, run away and do it again.” 

“Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what ’s 
your name? Mine ’s Helen. ” 

“Tom.” 

That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would 
ask a child its name, but they never told their names in 
return. 

“Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ’ve 
another called Tibby.” 

“Mine are lop-eareds,” replied Tom, supposing 
Tibby to be a rabbit. 

“You ’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. 
Mind you come again. — Is n’t he charming?” 

“Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably 
the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this 
place has wonderful powers.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Because I probably agree with you.” 

“It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful 
live.” 

“I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk.' 
“But you said that the house was dead not half an hour 
ago.” 

“Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.” 

“Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it 
was empty, and, as it is, I can’t get over that for thirty 
years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. 
After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ’ve a 
startling idea.” 


3 68 


Howards End 


“What is it?” 

“ Drink some milk to steady you. ” 

Margaret obeyed. 

“No, I won’t tell you yet,” said Helen, “because you 
may laugh or be angry. Let ’s go upstairs first and 
give the rooms an airing. ” 

They opened window after window, till the inside, 
too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture- 
frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of ex- 
citement as she found this bed obviously in its right 
place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss 
Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. “Then 
one would see really.” She admired the view. She 
was the Helen who had written the memorable letters 
four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, 
she said: “About my idea. Couldn’t you and I camp 
out in this house for the night?” 

“I don’t think we could well do that, ” said Margaret. 

“Here are beds, tables, towels ” 

“I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept 
in, and Henry’s suggestion was ” 

“I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything 
in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure 
to have one night here with you. It will be something 
to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let ’s!” 

“But, Helen, my pet,” said Margaret, “we can’t 
without getting Henry’s leave. Of course, he would 
give it, but you said yourself that you could n’t visit 
at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate.” 

“Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our 
furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do 
let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us 
on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon.” 


Helen’s Whim 


369 


Margaret hesitated. “I feel Charles wouldn’t like 
it,” she said at last. “Even our furniture annoyed 
him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley’s 
illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. 
He feels it ’s his mother’s house. He loves it in rather 
an untaking way. Henry I could answer for — not 
Charles.” 

“I know he won’t like it,” said Helen. “But I am 
going to pass out of their lives. What difference will 
it make in the long run if they say, ‘And she even 
spent the night at Howards End’?” 

“How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? 
We have thought that twice before.” 

“Because my plans ” 

“ — which you change in a moment.” 

“Then because my life is great and theirs are little,” 
said Helen, taking fire. “I know of things they can’t 
know of, and so do you. We know that there ’s poetry. 
We know that there ’s death. They can only take them 
on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it 
feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the 
door-keys, but for this one night we are at home.” 

“It would be lovely to have you once more alone,” 
said Margaret. “It may be a chance in a thousand.” 

“Yes, and we could talk.” She dropped her voice. 
“It won’t be a very glorious story. But under that 
wych-elm — honestly, I see little happiness ahead. 
Cannot I have this one night with you?” 

“I need n’t say how much it would mean to me.” 

“Then let us.” 

“It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to 
Hilton now and get leave?” 

“Oh, we don’t want leave.” 


24 


370 


Howards End 


But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagina- 
tion and poetry — perhaps on account of them — she 
could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry 
would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. 
A night’s lodging — and they demanded no more — need 
not involve the discussion of general principles. 

“Charles may say no,” grumbled Helen. 

“We shan’t consult him.” 

“Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave.” 

It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough 
to mar Helen’s character, and even added to its beauty. 
She would have stopped without leave and escaped to 
Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. 

“Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward 
to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such 
a beautiful thing.” 

“Not a thing, only an ending,” said Helen rather 
sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret 
again as soon as she left the house. 

She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to 
fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was 
glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the 
farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the 
straw. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


A Quarrel 

The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many 
another talk, by the man’s deft assertion of his superior- 
ity. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped 
out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, 
and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, 
who had not been “told,” ran out with offers of tea. 
He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby’s 
perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. 

“But the diddums can’t listen; he isn’t nine months 
old,” she pleaded. 

“That ’s not what I was saying,” retorted her father- 
in-law. 

Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear 
about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn 
of Margaret. 

“Is it what we feared?” he asked. 

“It is.” 

“Dear girl,” he began, “there is a troublesome busi- 
ness ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute 
honesty and plain speech will see us through.” Mar- 
garet bent her head. “I am obliged to question you 
on subjects we ’d both prefer to leave untouched. As 
37i 


372 


Howards End 


you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who 
consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain 
me, but there are occasions — We are husband and 
wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you 
are a most exceptional woman.” 

All Margaret’s senses forsook her. She blushed, and 
looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring 
herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. 

“I see that you feel as I felt when — My poor 
little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, 
and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a 
wedding-ring? ” 

Margaret stammered a “No.” 

There was an appalling silence. 

“Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards 
End.” 

“One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for 
the name of her seducer.” 

She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. 
Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not 
displease him that she should receive his question thus. 

“Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember 
that this is far worse for me than for you.” 

She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then 
speech came, and she said slowly: “Seducer? No; I do 
not know her seducer’s name.” 

“Would she not tell you?” 

“I never even asked her who seduced her,” said 
Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. 

“That is singular.” Then he changed his mind. 
“Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn’t ask. 
But until his name is known, nothing can be done. 
Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I 


A Quarrel 373 

knew you were n’t fit for it. I wish I had n’t taken 
you.” 

Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t 
mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills.” 
“As you like.” 

“Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?” 

“Next you must tell me whether you have gathered 
anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. 
I only wish my own was as good. You may have 
guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. 
The slightest hint would help us.” 

“Who is ‘we’?” 

“I thought it best to ring up Charles.” 

“That was unnecessary,” said Margaret, growing 
warmer. “This news will give Charles disproportionate 
pain.” 

“He has at once gone to call on your brother.” 

“That too was unnecessary.” 

“Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You 
don’t think that I and my son are other than gentle- 
men? It is in Helen’s interests that we are acting. It 
is still not too late to save her name. ” 

Then Margaret hit out for the first time. “Are we 
to make her seducer marry her?” she asked. 

“If possible, yes.” 

“But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married 
already? One has heard of such cases.” 

“In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, 
and be thrashed within an inch of his life.” 

So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. 
What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives. 
Henry’s obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. 
Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking 


374 


Howards End 


at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At 
last she said: “May I ask you my question now?” 

“Certainly, my dear.” 

“To-morrow Helen goes to Munich ” 

“Well, possibly she is right.” 

“Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; 
to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at 
Howards End.” 

It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have 
recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She 
had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed 
to warn him that they were far more important than 
he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they 
were a business proposition. 

“Why Howards End?” he said at last. “Would she 
not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?” 

Margaret hastened to give him reasons. “It is an 
odd request, but you know what Helen is and what 
women in her state are.” He frowned, and moved 
irritably. “She has the idea that one night in your 
house would give her pleasure and do her good. I 
think she ’s right. Being one of those imaginative 
girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes 
her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her 
last words to me were, ‘A beautiful ending.’ ” 

“She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, 
in fact.” 

“Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her 
last hope of being with it.” 

“I don’t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her 
share of the goods wherever she goes — possibly more 
than her share, for you are so fond of her that you ’d 
give her anything of yours that she fancies, would n’t 


375 


A Quarrel 

you? and I ’d raise no objection. I could understand 
it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house” — 
he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of 
a telling point — “because a house in which one has once 
lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don’t know 
why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no 
associations with Howards End, though I and Charles 
and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay 
the night there. She will only catch cold.” 

“ Leave it that you don’t see, ” cried Margaret. “Call 
it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. 
Helen is fanciful, and wants to.” 

Then he surprised her — a rare occurrence. He shot 
an unexpected bolt. “If she wants to sleep one night 
she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out 
of the house, perhaps.” 

“Well?” said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. 
“And suppose we don’t get her out of the house? Would 
it matter? She would do no one any harm. ” 

Again the irritated gesture. 

“No, Henry,” she panted, receding. “I didn’t 
mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for 
this one night. I take her to London to-morrow ” 

“Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?” 

“She cannot be left alone.” 

“That ’s quite impossible! Madness. You must be 
here to meet Charles.” 

“I have already told you that your message to Charles 
was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him.” 

4 ‘ Margaret — my Margaret ’ ’ 

“What has this business to do with Charles? If it 
concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles 
not at all.” 


3 76 


Howards End 


“As the future owner of Howards End, ” said Mr. 
Wilcox arching his fingers, “I should say that it did 
concern Charles.” 

“In what way? Will Helen’s condition depreciate 
the property?” 

“My dear, you are forgetting yourself.” 

“I think you yourself recommended plain speaking.” 

They looked at each other in amazement. The preci- 
pice was at their feet now. 

“Helen commands my sympathy,” said Henry. 
“As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and 
I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against 
than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing 
has happened. I should be false to my position in 
society if I did. ” 

She controlled herself for the last time. “No, let 
us go back to Helen’s request,” she said. “It is un- 
reasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. To- 
morrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society 
no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty 
house — a house which you do not care about, and which 
you have not occupied for over a year. May she? 
Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her — 
as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually 
been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That 
will be enough.” 

“As I have actually been forgiven — ?” 

“Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,” 
said Margaret. “Answer my question.” 

Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. 
If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he 
answered: “I seem rather unaccommodating, but I 
have some experience of life, and know how one thing 


377 


A Quarrel 

leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better 
sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory 
of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that 
she leaves my house at once.” 

“You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. 
Bast?” 

“You have not been yourself all day,” said Henry, 
and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret 
rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was 
transfigured. 

“Not any more of this!” she cried. “You shall see 
the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had 
a mistress — I forgave you. My sister has a lover — 
you drive her from the house. Do you see the con- 
nection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel — oh, contemptible! 
— a man who insults his wife when she ’s alive and cants 
with her memory when she ’s dead. A man who ruins 
a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other 
men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says 
he is not responsible. These men are you. You can’t 
recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ’ve 
had enough of your unweeded kindness. I ’ve spoilt 
you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. 
Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what 
you are — muddled, criminally muddled. Men like 
you use repentance as a blind, so don’t repent. Only 
say to yourself, ‘What Helen has done, I ’ve done.’” 

“The two cases are different,” Henry stammered. 
His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still 
in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. 

“In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. 


378 


Howards End 


Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society,' 
Helen can’t. You have had only pleasure, she may!< 
die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, i: 
Henry?” 

Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry’s retort came. 

“I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is 
scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her: 
husband. My rule through life has been never to pay ; 
the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat 
what I said before: I do not give you and your sister > 
leave to sleep at Howards End.” 

Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, 
wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief, s' 
For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of | 
warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out • 
into what was now the evening. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


What Tibby Knows 

Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the 
latter was staying. Their interview was short and 
absurd. They had nothing in common but the English 
language, and tried by its help to express what neither 
of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family 
foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous 
of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward 
to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was 
made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way 
before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered 
she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool. 
But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part 
of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles’s 
dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly 
before him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if they 
were heads in a note-book, he ran through all the inci- 
dents of the Schlegels’ campaign: the attempt to com- 
promise his brother, his mother’s legacy, his father’s 
marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the un- 
packing of the same. He had not yet heard of the 
request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their 
master-stroke and the opportunity for his. But he 
379 


380 


Howards End 


already felt that Howards End was the objective, and,;!t 
though he disliked the house, was determined to defend! 

it- 

Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stoodjj 
above the conventions : his sister had a right to do what;, 
she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above 1 
the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; ft 
men can always be more unconventional than women, p 
and a bachelor of independent means need encounter 
no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money 
enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he; 
shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only! 
to move into another. His was the leisure without! 
sympathy — an attitude as fatal as the strenuous; a < 
little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His | 
sisters had seen the family danger, and had never for-n 
gotten to discount the gold islets that raised them from 
the sea. Tibby gave all the praise to himself, and so 
despised the struggling and the submerged. 

Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between 
them was economic as well as spiritual. But several 
facts passed; Charles pressed for them with an im- 
pertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. 
On what date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? 
(Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Germany.) 
Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: “I suppose 
you realise that you are your sister's protector?” 

“In what sense?” 

“If a man played about with my sister, I ’d send a 
bullet through him, but perhaps you don’t mind. ” 

“I mind very much,” protested Tibby. 

“Who d’ ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One 
always suspects some one.” 


What Tibby Knows 381 

“No one. I don’t think so.” Involuntarily he 
blushed. He had remembered the scene in his Oxford 
rooms. 

“You are hiding something, ” said Charles. As inter- 
views go, he got the best of this one. “When you saw 
her last, did she mention any one’s name? Yes or no!” 
he thundered, so that Tibby started. 

“In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the 
Basts ” 

“Who are the Basts?” 

“People — friends of hers at Evie’s wedding.” 

“I don’t remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My 
aunt told me about some tag-rag. Was she full of 
them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she 
speak of the man? Or — look here — have you had any 
dealings with him?” 

Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had 
betrayed his sister’s confidence; he was not enough 
interested in human life to see where things will lead to. 
He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once 
given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply 
vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but 
for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment. 

“I see — you are in his confidence. They met at 
your rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God 
help the poor pater ” 

And Tibby found himself alone. 


CHAPTER XL 


Under the Wych-Elm 

\ 

Leonard — he would figure at length in a newspaper; 
report, but that evening he did not count for much. 
The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon wasi 
still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to I 
left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming, j 
Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause. 

Perhaps it was Helen’s way of falling in love — a 
curious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose j 
contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. 
Helen forgot people. They were husks that had en- 
closed her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, 
or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest j 
way, where man and woman, having lost themselves; 
in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship? 

Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This 
was Helen’s evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of 
her — the loss of friends and of social advantages, the 
agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is 
not even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the ! 
present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes 
of the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale 
of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring 
peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. 

382 


3&3 


Under the Wych-Elm 

She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; 
it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us 
that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins 
in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. 
The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer 
may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was 
evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that 
cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone. 

This was Helen’s evening — won at what cost, and 
not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her 
own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. 

“One isolates,” said Helen slowly. “I isolated Mr. 
Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard 
downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost 
of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, 
and so, when your letters came ” 

“I need never have written them,” sighed Margaret. 
“They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to 
tidy away the past, even for others!” 

“I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss 
the Basts.” 

“Looking back, that was wrong of me.” 

“Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. 
It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less 
enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought 
you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch 
of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by 
this time — and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not 
seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard — 
I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have 
warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came 
I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said 
that he guessed the explanation — he knew of it, and 


384 


Howards End 


you must n’t know. I pressed him to tell me. He 
said no one must know; it was something to do with his 
wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss i 
Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank 
with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. 
Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, not one. I drew 
him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely 
myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on 
worshipping me. I want never to see him again, though 
it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and 
feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about 
these things!” 

She laid her face against the tree. 

“The little, too, that is known about growth! Both 
times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic after- 
wards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?” 

Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was 
she that her attention had actually wandered to the i 
teeth — the teeth that had been thrust into the tree’s bark 
to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them 
gleam. She had been trying to count them. “Leonard 
is a better growth than madness,” she said. “I was 
afraid that you would react against Paul until you 
went over the verge.” 

“ I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady 
now. I shan’t ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or 
even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding 
hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any 
more. I understand how you married him, and you 
will now be very happy.” 

Margaret did not reply. 

“Yes,” repeated Helen, her voice growing more 
tender, “I do at last understand.” 


Under the Wych-Elm 385 

“Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands 
our little movements.” 

“Because in death — I agree.” 

“Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are 
only fragments of that woman’s mind. She knows 
everything. She is everything. She is the house, and 
the tree that leans over it. People have their own deaths 
as well as their own lives, and even if there is nothing 
beyond death, we shall differ in our nothingness. I 
cannot believe that knowledge such as hers will perish 
with knowledge such as mine. She knew about real- 
ities. She knew when people were in love, though she 
was not in the room. I don’t doubt that she knew 
when Henry deceived her.” 

“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” called a voice. 

“Oh, good-night, Miss Avery.” 

“Why should Miss Avery work for us?” Helen 
murmured. 

“Why, indeed?” 

Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the 
hedge that divided it from the farm. An old gap, which 
Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and her track 
through the dew followed the path that he had turfed 
over, when he improved the garden and made it possible 
for games. 

“ This is not quite our house yet, ” said Helen. “ When 
Miss Avery called, I felt we are only a couple of tourists.” 

“We shall be that everywhere, and for ever.” 

“But affectionate tourists ” 

“But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home.” 

“I can’t pretend very long,” said Helen. “Sitting 
under this tree one forgets, but I know that to-morrow 
I shall see the moon rise out of Germany. Not all your 


25 


386 


Howards End 


goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless you ! 
will come with me.” 

Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year 
she had grown so fond of England that to leave it was 
a real grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry j 
would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and 
muddling into a ripe old age. But what was the good? 
She had just as soon vanish from his mind. 

“Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I 
get on with your Monica?” 

“You would not, but I am serious in asking you.” 

“Still, no more plans now. And no more reminis- 1 
cences.” 

They were silent for a little. It was Helen’s evening. 

The present flowed by them like a stream. The 
tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, 
and would continue after their deaths, but its song was 
of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree 
rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they 
seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree 
rustled again. 

“Sleep now,” said Margaret. 

The peace of the country was entering into her. It 
has no commerce with memory, and little with hope. 
Least of all is it concerned with the hopes of the next 
five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which 
passes understanding. Its murmur came “now,” and 
“now” once more as they trod the gravel, and “now,” 
as the moonlight fell upon their father’s sword. They 
passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless iterations 
fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at 
first, but as the moon rose higher the two disentangled, 
and were clear for a few moments at midnight. Mar- 


3«7 


Under the Wych-Elm 

garet awoke and looked into the garden. How incom- 
prehensible that Leonard Bast should have won her 
this night of peace! Was he also part of Mrs. Wilcox’s 
mind? 


CHAPTER XLI 




A Tragedy 

Far different was Leonard’s development. The months 
after Oniton, whatever minor troubles they might bring 
him, were all overshadowed by Remorse. When Helen 
looked back she could philosophise, or she could look i 
into the future and plan for her child. But the father 
saw nothing beyond his own sin. Weeks afterwards, 
in the midst of other occupations, he would suddenly ; 
cry out, “Brute — you brute, I couldn’t have — ” 
and be rent into two people who held dialogues. Or 
brown rain would descend, blotting out faces and the : 
sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in him. Most 
terrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep. 
Sometimes he was happy at first, but grew conscious 
of a burden hanging to him and weighing down his 
thoughts when they would move. Or little irons 
scorched his body. Or a sword stabbed him. He would 
sit at the edge of his bed, holding his heart and moaning, 
“Oh what shall I do, whatever shall I do?” Nothing 
brought ease. He could put distance between him and 
the trespass, but it grew in his soul. 

Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The 
Greeks were right to dethrone her. Her action is too 
388 


3§9 


A Tragedy 

capricious, as though the Erinyes selected for punish- 
ment only certain men and certain sins. And of all 
means to regeneration Remorse is surely the most 
wasteful. It cuts away healthy tissues with the poisoned. 
It is a knife that probes far deeper than the evil. Leonard 
was driven straight through its torments and emerged 
pure, but enfeebled — a better man, who would never 
lose control of himself again, but also a smaller man, 
who had less to control. Nor did purity mean peace. 
The use of the knife can become a habit as hard to 
shake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to 
start with a cry out of dreams. 

He built up a situation that was far enough from the 
truth. It never occurred to him that Helen was to 
blame. He forgot the intensity of their talk, the charm 
that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oniton 
under darkness and of the whispering river. Helen 
loved the absolute. Leonard had been ruined absolutely, 
and had appeared to her as a man apart, isolated from 
the world. A real man, who cared for adventure and 
beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his way, 
who could have travelled more gloriously through life 
than the Juggernaut car that was crushing him. Mem- 
ories of Evie’s wedding had warped her, the starched 
servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle of over- 
dressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, 
a pretentious band. She had tasted the lees of this 
on her arrival; in the darkness, after failure, they in- 
toxicated her. She and the victim seemed alone in a 
world of unreality, and she loved him absolutely, 
perhaps for half an hour. 

In the morning she was gone. The note that she 
left, tender and hysterical in tone, and intended to be 


390 


Howards End 


most kind, hurt her lover terribly. It was as if some 
work of art had been broken by him, some picture in 
the National Gallery slashed out of its frame. When 
he recalled her talents and her social position, he felt 
that the first passer-by had a right to shoot him down. 
He was afraid of the waitress and the porters at the 
railway-station. He was afraid at first of his wife, 
though later he was to regard her with a strange new 
tenderness, and to think, “There is nothing to choose 
between us, after all.” 

The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts 
permanently. Helen in her flight forgot to settle the 
hotel bill, and took their return tickets away with her; 
they had to pawn Jacky’s bangles to get home, and 
the smash came a few days afterwards. It is true that 
Helen offered him five thousand pounds, but such a 
sum meant nothing to him. He could not see that the 
girl was desperately righting herself, and trying to save 
something out of the disaster, if it was only five thousand 
pounds. But he had to live somehow. He turned to 
his family, and degraded himself to a professional . 
beggar. There was nothing else for him to do. 

“A letter from Leonard,” thought Blanche, his sister; 

“ and after all this time. ” She hid it, so that her husband 
should not see, and when he had gone to his work read 
it with some emotion, and sent the prodigal a little 
money out of her dress allowance. 

“A letter from Leonard!” said the other sister, Laura, 
a few days later. She showed it to her husband. He 
wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent more money than 
Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again. 

And during the winter the system was developed. 
Leonard realised that they need never starve, because 


39i 


A Tragedy 

it would be too painful for his relatives. Society is 
based on the family, and the clever wastrel can exploit 
this indefinitely. Without a generous thought on either 
side, pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked 
Leonard, and he grew to hate them intensely. When 
Laura censured his immoral marriage, he thought 
bitterly, “She minds that! What would she say if she 
knew the truth ? ’ ’ When Blanche’s husband offered him 
work, he found some pretext for avoiding it. He had 
wanted work keenly at Oniton, but too much anxiety 
had shattered him, he was joining the unemployable. 
When his brother, the lay-reader, did not reply to a 
letter, he wrote again, saying that he and Jacky would 
come down to his village on foot. He did not intend 
this as blackmail. Still the brother sent a postal order, 
and it became part of the system. And so passed his 
winter and his spring. 

In the horror there are two bright spots. He never 
confused the past. He remained alive, and blessed 
are those who live, if it is only to a sense of sinfulness. 
The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur 
and blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard’s lips — 

“ And if I drink oblivion of a day, 

So shorten I the stature of my soul.” 

It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it 
lies at the root of all character. 

And the other bright spot was his tenderness for 
Jacky. He pitied her with nobility now — not the con- 
temptuous pity of a man who sticks to a woman through 
thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He 
wondered what her hungry eyes desired— nothing that 


392 


Howards End 


she could express, or that he or any man could give her. 
Would she ever receive the justice that is mercy — the 
justice for by-products that the world is too busy to 
bestow? She was fond of flowers, generous with money, 
and not revengeful. If she had borne him a child he 
might have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard would 
never have begged; he would have flickered out and 
died. But the whole of life is mixed. He had to pro- 
vide for Jacky,and went down dirty paths that she might 
have a few feathers and the dishes of food that suited her. 

One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. 
He was in St. Paul’s. He had entered the cathedral 
partly to avoid the rain and partly to see a picture that 
had educated him in former years. But the light was 
bad, the picture ill placed, and Time and Judgment were 
inside him now. Death alone still charmed him, with 
her lap of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. He 
took one glance, and turned aimlessly away towards a 
chair. Then down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and 
her brother. They stood in the fairway of passengers, 
and their faces were extremely grave. He was per- 
fectly certain that they were in trouble about their 
sister. 

Once outside — and he fled immediately — he wished 
that he had spoken to them. What was his life? What 
were a few angry words, or even imprisonment? He 
had done wrong — that was the true terror. Whatever 
they might know, he would tell them everything he 
knew. He re-entered St. Paul’s. But they had moved 
in his absence, and had gone to lay their difficulties 
before Mr. Wilcox and Charles. 

The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new 
channels. He desired to confess, and though the desire 


393 


A Tragedy 

is proof of a weakened nature, which is about to lose 
the essence of human intercourse, it did not take an 
ignoble form. He did not suppose that confession 
would bring him happiness. It was rather that he 
yearned to get clear of the tangle. So does the suicide 
yearn. The impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide 
lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom 
we leave behind. Confession need harm no one — it 
can satisfy that test — and though it was un-English, 
and ignored by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard had a 
right to decide upon it. 

Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her 
hardness now. That cold, intellectual nature of hers 
would be just, if unkind. He would do whatever she 
told him, even if he had to see Helen. That was the 
supreme punishment she would exact. And perhaps 
she would tell him how Helen was. That was the 
supreme reward. 

He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether 
she was married to Mr. Wilcox, and tracking her out 
took several days. That evening he toiled through 
the wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were 
now appearing. Was he also the cause of their move? 
Were they expelled from society on his account? Thence 
to a public library, but could find no satisfactory Schlegel 
in the directory. On the morrow he searched again. 
He hung about outside Mr. Wilcox’s office at lunch 
time, and, as the clerks came out said, “Excuse me, sir, 
but is your boss married?” Most of them stared, some 
said, “What’s that to you?” but one, who had not 
yet acquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leon- 
ard could not learn the private address. That necessi- 
tated more trouble with directories and tubes. Ducie 


394 


Howards End 


Street was not discovered till the Monday, the day that 
Margaret and her husband went down on their hunting 
expedition to Howards End. 

He called at about four o’clock. The weather had 
changed, and the sun shone gaily on the ornamental 
steps — black and white marble in triangles. Leonard 
lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He 
felt in curious health; doors seemed to be opening and 
shutting inside his body, and he had been obliged to 
sleep sitting up in bed, with his back propped against 
the wall. When the parlourmaid came he could not 
see her face; the brown rain had descended suddenly. 

“Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?” he asked. 

“She ’s out,” was the answer. 

“When will she be back?” 

“I ’ll ask,” said the parlourmaid. 

Margaret had given instructions that no one who 
mentioned her name should ever be rebuffed. Putting 
the door on the chain — for Leonard’s appearance de- 
manded this — she went through to the smoking-room, 
which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He 
had had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung 
him up for the distracting interview. He said drowsily: 
“I don’t know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?” 

“I ’ll ask, sir.” 

“No, don’t bother.” 

“They have taken the car to Howards End,” said the 
parlourmaid to Leonard. 

He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was. 

“You appear to want to know a good deal,” she 
remarked. But Margaret had forbidden her to be 
mysterious. She told him against her better judgment 
that Howards End was in Hertfordshire. 


395 


A Tragedy 

x “Is it a village, please?” 

“Village! It ’s Mr. Wilcox’s private house — at least, 
it ’s one of them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture 
there. Hilton is the village. ” 

“Yes. And when will they be back?” 

“Mr. Schlegel does n’t know. We can’t know every- 
thing, can we?” She shut him out, and went to attend 
to the telephone, which was ringing furiously. 

He loitered away another night of agony. Con- 
fession grew more difficult. As soon as possible he 
went to bed. He watched a patch of moonlight cross 
the floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes happens 
when the mind is overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest 
of the room, but kept awake for the patch of moonlight. 
Horrible ! Then began one of those disintegrating 
dialogues. Part of him said: “Why horrible? It’s 
2 ordinary light from the moon.” “But it moves.” 
“So does the moon.” “But it is a clenched fist.” 
“Why not?” “ But it is going to touch me. ” “Let it.” 
And, seeming to gather motion, the patch ran up his 
blanket. Presently a blue snake appeared ; then another 
parallel to it. “Is there life in the moon?” “Of 
course.” “But I thought it was uninhabited.” “Not 
by Time, Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes.” 
“Smaller snakes!” said Leonard indignantly and aloud. 
“What a notion!” By a rending effort of the will he 
woke the rest of the room up. Jacky, the bed, their 
food, their clothes on the chair, gradually entered his 
consciousness, and the horror vanished outwards, like 
a ring that is spreading through water. 

“I say, Jacky, I ’m going out for a bit.” 

She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell 
clear of the striped blanket, and began to cover the 


\ 


396 


Howards End 


shawl that lay over her feet. Why had he been afraid? 
He went to the window, and saw that the moon was 
descending through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, 
and the bright expanses that a gracious error has named 
seas. They paled, for the sun, who had lit them up, 
was coming to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea 
of Tranquillity, Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged 
into one lucent drop, itself to slip into the sempiternal 
dawn. And he had been afraid of the moon! 

He dressed among the contending lights, and went 
through his money. It was running low again, but 
enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it clinked, 
Jacky opened her eyes. 

“Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!” 

“What ho, Jacky! see you again later.” 

She turned over and slept. 

The house was unlocked, their landlord being a sales- 
man at Co vent Garden. Leonard passed out and made 
his way down to the station. The train, though it did 
not start for an hour, was already drawn up at the end 
of the platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With 
the first jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gate- 
ways of King’s Cross, and were under blue sky. Tun- 
nels followed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and 
from the embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first 
sight of the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern 
smokes — a wheel, whose fellow was the descending 
moon — and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky, 
not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it 
was day. To the left fell the shadow of the embankment 
and its arches; to the right Leonard saw up into the 
Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its wild 
legend of immortality. Six forest trees — that is a fact — 




397 


A Tragedy 

grow out of one of the graves in Tewin churchyard. 
The grave’s occupant — that is the legend — is an atheist, 
who declared that if God existed, six forest trees would 
grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; 
and farther afield lay the house of a hermit — Mrs. 
Wilcox had known him — who barred himself up, and 
wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the poor. 
While, powdered in between, were the villas of business 
men, who saw life more steadily, though with the steadi- 
ness of the half-closed eye. Over all the sun was stream- 
ing, to all the birds were singing, to all the primroses 
were yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country, 
however they interpreted her, was uttering her cry of 
“now.” She did not free Leonard yet, and the knife 
plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at 
Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful. 

Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. 
Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it 
into the country. Here men had been up since dawn. 
Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by 
the movements of the crops and the sun. That they 
were men of the finest type only the sentimentalists 
can declare. But they kept to the life of daylight. 
They are England’s hope. Clumsily they carry forward 
the torch of the sun, until such time as the nation sees 
fit to take it up. Half clodhopper, half board-school 
prig, they can still throw back to a nobler stock, and 
breed yeomen. 

At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was 
another type, whom Nature favours — the Imperial. 
Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. 
It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; 
strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, 


398 


Howards End 


who carries his country’s virtue overseas. But the ; 
Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a 
destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, ; 
and though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth 
that he inherits will be grey. 

To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the 
conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not 
the optimism which he had been taught at school. ; 
Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins 
stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the ;; 
superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from j 
his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of 
death saves him — that is the best account of it that has , 
yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all 
that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love, i 
They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they 
are not love’s servants. But they can beckon, and the 
knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. 

As he approached the house all thought stopped. 
Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. 
He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no 
sin. He knew the confession : “ Mrs. Wilcox, I have done 
wrong,” but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt 
rather on a supreme adventure. 

He entered a garden, steadied himself against a 
motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and 
entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a 
room to the left he heard voices, Margaret’s amongst 
them. His own name was called aloud, and a man 
whom he had never seen said, “Oh, is he there? I am 
not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his 
life.” 

t “Mrs. Wilcox,” said Leonard, “I have done wrong.” 


399 


A Tragedy 

The man took him by the collar and cried, “ Bring 
me a stick.” Women were screaming. A stick, very 
bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, 
but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. 
Nothing had sense. 

“Get some water,” commanded Charles, who had 
all through kept very calm. “He’s shamming. Of 
course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out 
into the air.” 

Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret 
obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on 
the gravel; Helen poured water over him. 

“That’s enough,” said Charles. 

“Yes, murder’s enough,” said Miss Avery, coming 
out of the house with the sword. 


CHAPTER XLII 


The Most Important Witness 

When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first 
train home, but had no inkling of the newest develop- 
ment until late at night. Then his father, who had 
dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones 
inquired for Margaret. 

“I don’t know where she is, pater,” said Charles. 
“ Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her. ” 

“Tell me when she comes in.” 

Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and 
Charles visited his father again, to receive further in- 
structions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. 

“I ’ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can 
hardly be coming. Is n’t she stopping with her sister 
at the hotel?” 

“Perhaps, ” said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully — “perhaps.” 

“Can I do anything for you, sir?” 

“Not to-night, my boy.” 

Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, 
and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than 
he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and 
strong man in one. Though his wife had proved un- 
stable his children were left to him. 

400 


The Most Important Witness 401 

After midnight he tapped on Charles’s door. “I 
can’t sleep,” he said. “I had better have a talk with 
you and get it over.” 

He complained of the heat. Charles took him out 
into the garden, and they paced up and down in their 
dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the 
story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret 
was as bad as her sister. 

“She will feel differently in the morning,” said Mr. 
Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. 
Bast. “But I cannot let this kind of thing continue 
without comment. I am morally certain that she is 
with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine — 
and, Charles, it will be yours — and when I say that no 
one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. 
I won’t have it.” He looked angrily at the moon. 
“To my mind this question is connected with something 
far greater, the rights of property itself.” 

“Undoubtedly,” said Charles. 

Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son’s, but somehow 
liked him less as he told him more. “I don’t want you 
to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the 
nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who 
would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but 
on the understanding that they clear out of the house 
at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non" 

“Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?” 

“Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my 
representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles.” 

On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard 
dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had 
used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His 
stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery 

26 


402 


Howards End 


had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the 
sword. On his way through the village he informed 
the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an 
inquest. He found his father in the garden shading 
his eyes from the sun. 

“It has been pretty horrible,” said Charles gravely. 
“They were there, and they had the man up there with 
them too.” 

“What — what man?” 

“I told you last night. His name was Bast.” 

“My God! is it possible?” said Mr. Wilcox. “In 
your mother’s house! Charles, in your mother’s house!” 

“I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter 
of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He 
was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before 
I could show him what I thought of him he went off. 
The police are seeing about it at this moment. ” 

Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. 

“I got up there — oh, it could n’t have been more than 
half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire 
for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the 
drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and col- 
lected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your 
message, and Mrs. Wilcox said, ‘Oh yes, I see; yes,’ in 
that way of hers.” 

“Nothing else?” 

“I promised to tell you, ‘with her love,’ that she 
was going to Germany with her sister this evening. 
That was all we had time for.” 

Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. 

“Because by then I suppose the man got tired of 
hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his 
name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the hall. 




The Most Important Witness 403 

Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little 
too far.” 

“ Right, my dear boy? I don’t know. But you 
would have been no son of mine if you had n’t. Then 
did he just — just — crumple up as you said ? ” He shrunk 
from the simple word. 

“He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down 
over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried 
him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming. 
However, he ’s dead right enough. Awful business!” 

“Sword?” cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. 
“What sword? Whose sword?” 

“A sword of theirs.” 

“What were you doing with it?” 

“Well, did n’t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the 
first thing handy. I had n’t a riding-whip or stick. 
I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the 
flat of their old German sword.” 

“Then what?” 

“He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell,” 
said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands 
for his father, who was never quite satisfied. 

“But the real cause was heart disease? Of that 
you ’re sure?” 

“That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than 
enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics.” 

They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking 
headache, consequent on motoring before food. He was 
also anxious about the future, reflecting that the police 
must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and 
ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged 
to leave Hilton. One could not afford to live near the 
scene of a scandal — it was not fair on one’s wife. His 


404 


Howards End 


comfort was that the pater’s eyes were opened at last. 
There would be a horrible smash-up, and probably a 
separation from Margaret; then they would all start 
again, more as they had been in his mother’s time. 

“I think I ’ll go round to the police-station,” said his 
father when breakfast was over. 

“What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been ! 
“told.” 

“Very well, sir. Which car will you have?” 

“I think I ’ll walk.” 

“It’s a good half-mile,” said Charles, stepping into 
the garden. “The sun ’s very hot for April. Shan’t I 
take you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin round by 
Tewin?” 

“You go on as if I did n’t know my own mind,” said 
Mr. Wilcox fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth. 
“You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a motor. 

I tell you, I want to walk; I ’m very fond of walking.” 

“Oh, all right; I ’m about the house if you want me 
for anything. I thought of not going up to the office 
to-day, if that is your wish.” 

“It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a 
hand on his sleeve. 

Charles did not like it ; he was uneasy about his father, 
who did not seem himself this morning. There was a 
petulant touch about him — more like a woman. Could 
it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not 
lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not 
know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin, 
and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed 
very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling up 
the road, he had a vague regret — a wish that something 
had been different somewhere — a wish (though he did 


The Most Important Witness 405 

not express it thus) that he had been taught to say “I” 
in his youth. He meant to make up for Margaret’s 
defection, but knew that his father had been very 
happy with her until yesterday. How had she done it? 
By some dishonest trick, no doubt — but how? 

Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. 
There was to be an inquest on Leonard’s body to-morrow, 
and the police required his son to attend. 

“I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally 
be the most important witness there.” 


CHAPTER XLIII 

The Easiest Way Out 

Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt 
Juley’s illness and was not even to end with Leonard’s 
death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that healthy 
life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, 
yet senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and 
took values as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing- 
cards. It was natural that Henry should do this and 
cause Helen to do that, and then think her wrong for 
doing it; natural that she herself should think him 
wrong; natural that Leonard should want to know how 
Helen was, and come, and Charles be angry with him 
for coming — natural, but unreal. In this jangle of 
causes and effects what had become of their true selves? 
Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural 
causes; yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky, 
life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower, 
life and death were anything and everything, except 
this ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, 
and the ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and ad- 
venture behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned 
for; there was hope this side of the grave; there were 
truer relationships beyond the limits that fetter us 
406 


407 


The Easiest Way Out 

now. As a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, 
so she, from the turmoil and horror of those days, caught 
glimpses of the diviner wheels. 

And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm 
for the child’s sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but mur- 
muring tenderly, “No one ever told the lad he ’ll have 
a child” — they also reminded her that horror is not the 
end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not 
know, but there seemed great chance that a child would 
be born into the world, to take the great chances of 
beauty and adventure that the world offers. She 
moved through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, 
crimson-eyed and white. There was nothing else to 
be done; the time for telegrams and anger was over 
and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard should 
be folded on his breast and be filled with flowers. Here 
was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned 
into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands 
hold the sunset and the dawn. 

And even the influx of officials, even the return of the 
doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in 
the eternity of beauty. Science explained people, 
but could not understand them. After long centuries 
among the bones and muscles it might be advancing 
to knowledge of the nerves, but this would never give 
understanding. One could open the heart to Mr. 
Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets 
to them, for they wanted everything down in black and 
white, and black and white was exactly what they were 
left with. 

They questioned her closely about Charles. She 
never suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor 
agreed that it was due to heart disease. They asked 


4°8 


Howards End 


to see her father’s sword. She explained that Charles’s 
anger was natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions 
about Leonard followed, all of which she answered un- 
falteringly. Then back to Charles again. “No doubt 
Mr. Wilcox may have induced death,” she said; “but 
if it was n’t one thing it would have been another as 
you yourselves know.” At last they thanked her, and 
took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She 
began to pick up the books from the floor. 

Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place 
for her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, 
as if things were not hard enough, Madge and her 
husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they 
should receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, 
of course, they were right. The whole world was going 
to be right, and amply avenge any brave talk against 
the conventions. “Nothing matters,” the Schlegels 
had said in the past, “except one’s self-respect and 
that of one’s friends.” When the time came, other 
things mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded, 
and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, 
and to-morrow she would return to Germany. 

As for herself, she determined to go too. No message 
came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologise. 
Now that she had time to think over her own tragedy, 
she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for 
his behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech 
to him seemed perfect. She would not have altered 
a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust 
the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only 
to her husband, but to thousands of men like him — a 
protest against the inner darkness in high places that 
comes with a commercial age. Though he would 


409 


The Easiest Way Out 

build up his life without hers, she could not apologise. 
He had refused to connect, on the clearest issue that 
can be laid before a man, and their love must take the 
consequences. 

No, there was nothing more to be done. They had 
tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall 
was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the 
future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would 
go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none 
that she could imagine. At such moments the soul 
retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper 
stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the 
world’s glory not diminished, but different in kind to 
what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial 
things are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way 
all the winter. Leonard’s death brought her to the goal. 
Alas ! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, 
and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped 
with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams. 

With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He 
would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, 
and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at 
the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, 
at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying 
his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would 
keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from 
business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He 
would settle down — though she could not realise this. In 
her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others 
to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time 
he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What 
next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul 
to its appropriate Heaven. 


4io 


Howards End 


Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in im- 
mortality for herself. An eternal future had always 1 
seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for 
himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not 
rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory I 
that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether 
higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? 

Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. 
He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed 
like water, but the chauffeur remained, though im- 
pertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and 
he knew it. 

“Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?” she asked. 

“He did n’t say, madam.” 

“You have n’t any note for me?” 

“He did n’t say, madam.” 

After a moment’s thought she locked up Howards 
End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth 
that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the 
fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the 
coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows 
and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell 
the place now. 

She was determined not to spare him, for nothing 
new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her 
mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. 
He was standing a little outside Charles’s gate, and 
motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he 
said hoarsely: “I prefer to discuss things with you 
outside.” 

“ It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid, ” 
said Margaret. “Did you get my message?” 

“What about?” 


4H 


The Easiest Way Out 

“I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell 
you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our 
talk last night was more important than you have 
realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving 
you.’' 

“I am extremely tired,’ * said Henry, in injured tones. 
“I have been walking about all the morning, and wish 
to sit down.” 

“Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.” 

The Great North Road should have been bordered 
all its length with glebe. Henry’s kind had filched most 
of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were 
the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so 
that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. 

“Here are your keys,” said Margaret. She tossed 
them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of 
grass, and he did not pick them up. 

“I have something to tell you,” he said gently. 

She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession 
of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her 
admiration of the male. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister 
is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. 
We must manage to build up something, she and I and 
her child.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not 
too ill.” 

“After the inquest?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest 
will be?” 

“Yes, heart disease,” 


412 


Howards End 


“No, my dear; manslaughter.” 

Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The 
hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. 

“Manslaughter,” repeated Mr. Wilcox. “Charles 
may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don’t know ' 
what to do — what to do. I ’m broken — I ’m ended.” 

No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see 
that to break him was her only hope. She did not 
enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that ! 
day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict ; 
was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It 
was against all reason that he should be punished, but 
the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years’ 
imprisonment. Then Henry’s fortress gave way. He 
could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to 
Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she j 
could with him. She did what seemed easiest — she took 
him down to recruit at Howards End. 


CHAPTER XLIV 


Margaret’s Conquest 

Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed 
again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours 
of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred 
centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. 

“I have n’t any idea, ” she replied. “ Do you suppose 
baby may, Meg?” 

Margaret put down her work and regarded them 
absently. “What was that?” she asked. 

“Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to 
play with hay?” 

“I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret, 
and took up her work again. 

“Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie 
on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he 
is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut 
into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as 
careful as all that?” 

Tom held out his arms. 

“That child is a wonderful nursemaid,” remarked 
Margaret. 

“He is fond of baby. That ’s why he does it!” was 
Helen’s answer. ‘ ‘ They ’re going to be lifelong friends. ” 
4i3 


4H 


Howards End 


“Starting at the ages of six and one?” 

“Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom.” 

“It may be a greater thing for baby.” 

Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still 
stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred 
to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red 
poppies were reopening in the garden. July would 
follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, 
August with the cutting of the wheat. These little 
events would become part of her year after year. Every 
summer she would fear lest the well should give out, 
every winter lest the pipes should freeze ; every westerly 
gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of 
all things, and so she could not read or talk during a 
westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and 
her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie’s rockery, 
where the lawn merged into the field. 

“What a time they all are!” said Helen. “What can 
they be doing inside?” Margaret, who was growing 
less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter 
came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close 
by them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the 
dell-holes. 

“I wish Henry was out to enjoy this,” said Helen. 
“This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house! 
It ’s very hard.” 

“It has to be,” said Margaret. “The hay fever is 
his chief objection against living here, but he thinks 
it worth while.” 

“ Meg, is or is n’t he ill? I can’t make out. ” 

“Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very 
hard all his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the 
people who collapse when they do notice a thing.” 


Margaret’s Conquest 415 

“I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of 
the tangle. ” 

“Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not 
come, too, to-day. Still, he wanted them all to come. 
It has to be.” 

“Why does he want them?” 

Margaret did not answer. 

“Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.” 

“You ’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret. 

“I use n’t to.” 

“Use n’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the 
black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always 
excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building 
up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. 
Leonard was dead; Charles had two years more in 
prison. One use n’t always to see clearly before that 
time. It was different now. 

“ I like Henry because he does worry. ” 

“And he likes you because you don’t.” 

Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried 
her face in her hands. After a time she said: “About 
love,” a transition less abrupt than it appeared. 

Margaret never stopped working. 

“I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I 
should hang my life on to that once, and was driven 
up and down and about as if something was worrying 
through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem 
cured. That Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps 
writing about, must be a noble character, but he does n’t 
see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It is n’t 
shame or mistrust of myself. I simply could n’t. I ’m 
ended. I used to be so dreamy about a man’s love as a 
girl, and think that for good or evil love must be the 


416 


Howards End 


great thing. But it hasn’t been; it has been itself a 
dream. Do you agree?” 

“I do not agree. I do not.” 

“I ought to remember Leonard as my lover,” said 
Helen, stepping down into the field. “I tempted him, 
and killed him, and it is surely the least I can do. I 
would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on 
such an afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no 
good pretending. I am forgetting him. ” Her eyes filled 
with tears. “How nothing seems to match — how, my 
darling, my precious — ” She broke off . “Tommy!” 

“Yes, please?” 

“Baby ’s not to try and stand. — There ’s something 
wanting in me. I see you loving Henry, and under- 
standing him better daily, and I know that death 
would n’t part you in the least. But I — Is it some 
awful, appalling, criminal defect?” 

Margaret silenced her. She said: “It is only that 
people are far more different than is pretended. All 
over the world men and women are worrying because 
they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop. 
Here and there they have the matter out, and it comforts 
them. Don’t fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you 
have; love your child. I do not love children. I am 
thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty 
and charm, but that is all — nothing real, not one scrap 
of what there ought to be. And others — others go 
farther still, and move outside humanity altogether. 
A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow. Don’t 
you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is 
part of the battle against sameness. Differences — 
eternal differences, planted by God in a single family, 
so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps, 


Margaret’s Conquest 417 

but colour in the daily grey. Then I can’t have you 
worrying about Leonard. Don’t drag in the personal 
when it will not come. Forget him.” 

"Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?” 

"Perhaps an adventure.” 

"Is that enough?” 

" Not for us. But for him. ” 

Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the 
sorrel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and 
the quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that 
composed it. She raised it to her face. 

"Is it sweetening yet?” asked Margaret. 

"No, only withered.” 

j"It will sweeten to-morrow.” 

Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person,” she 
said. "Think of the racket and torture this time last 
year. But now I could n’t stop unhappy if I tried. 
What a change — and all through you!” 

"Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry 
learnt to understand one another and to forgive, all 
through the autumn and the winter. ” 

"Yes, but who settled us down?” 

Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, 
and she took off her pince-nez to watch it. 

"You!” cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, 
though you ’re too stupid to see. Living here was your 
plan — I wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said 
it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our 
lives without you, Meg — I and baby with Monica, 
revolting by theory, he handed about from Dolly to 
Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a 
home. Can’t it strike you — even for a moment — that 
your life has been heroic? Can’t you remember the 


27 


418 


Howards End 




two months after Charles’s arrest, when you began to 
act, and did all?” 

“You were both ill at the time,” said Margaret. “I ; 
did the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. 
Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was 
obvious. I did n’t know myself it would turn into a . 
permanent home. No doubt I have done a little 
towards straightening the tangle, but things that I 
can’t phrase have helped me.” 

“I hope it will be permanent,” said Helen, drifting 
away to other thoughts. 

“ I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards 
End peculiarly our own.” 

“All the same, London ’s creeping.” 

She pointed over the meadow — over eight or nine 
meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. 

“You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire 
now,” she continued. “I can see it from the Purbeck j 
Downs. And London is only part of something else, 

I ’m afraid. Life ’s going to be melted down, all over 
the world.” 

Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards 
End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were 
all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared 
for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. 
One’s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they 
possibly the earth beating time? 

“Because a thing is going strong now, it need not 
go strong for ever,” she said. “This craze for motion 
has only set in during the last hundred years. It may 
be followed by a civilisation that won’t be a movement, 
because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are 
against it now, but I can’t help hoping, and very early 


Margaret’s Conquest 419 

in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the 
future as well as the past.” 

They turned and looked at it. Their own memories 
coloured it now, for Helen’s child had been born in the 
central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, “Oh, 
take care — !” for something moved behind the window 
of the hall, and the door opened. 

“The conclave’s breaking at last. I’ll go.” 

It was Paul. 

Helen retreated with the children far into the field. 
Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to en- 
counter a man with a heavy black moustache. 

“ My father has asked for you, ” he said with hostility. 

She took her work and followed him. 

“We have been talking business,” he continued, 
“but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand.” 

“Yes, I_did.” 

Clumsy of movement — for he had spent all his life 
in the saddle — Paul drove his foot against the paint 
of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of 
annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she 
stopped in the hall to take Dolly’s boa and gloves out 
of a vase. 

Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in 
the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand 
rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in 
purple, sat near the window. The room was a little 
dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this 
until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the 
family without speaking; the five of them had met 
already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going 
to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on 
sewing. The clock struck six. 


420 


Howards End 


“Is this going to suit everyone?” said Henry in a 
weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect 
was unexpected and shadowy. “Because I don’t want 
you all coming here later on and complaining that I 
have been unfair.” 

“ It ’s apparently got to suit us, ” said Paul. 

“I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to 
speak, and I will leave the house to you instead.” 

Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching 
at his arm. “As I ’ve given up the outdoor life that 
suited me, and I have come home to look after the 
business, it ’s no good my settling down here,” he said 
at last. “It’s not really the country, and it’s not 
the town.” 

“Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?” 

“Of course, father.” 

“And you, Dolly?” 

Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could 
wither but not steady. “Perfectly splendidly,” she 
said. “I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but 
last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot 
possibly live in this part of England again. Charles 
says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think 
what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I 
can’t think of any other name.” 

There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously 
round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul 
continued to scratch his arm. 

“Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely,” 
said Henry. “And let everyone understand that; and 
after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise.” 

Margaret did not answer. There was something 
uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected 


421 


Margaret’s Conquest 

to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these 
Wilcoxes and broken; up their lives. 

“In consequence, I leave my wife no money,” said 
Henry. “That is her own wish. All that she would 
have had will be divided among you. I am also giving 
you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be 
independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also 
is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to 
diminish her income by half during the next ten years; 
she intends when she dies to leave the house to her — 
to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? 
Does everyone understand?” 

Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, 
and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. 
Feeling manly and cynical, he said: “Down in the field? 
Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole 
establishment, piccaninnies included.” 

Mrs. Cahill whispered: “Don’t, Paul. You promised 
you ’d take care.” Feeling a woman of the world, she 
rose and prepared to take her leave. 

Her father kissed her. “Good-bye, old girl,” he 
said; “don’t you worry about me.” 

“Good-bye, dad.” 

Then it was Dolly’s turn. Anxious to contribute, 
she laughed nervously, and said: “Good-bye, Mr. 
Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should 
have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, 
after all.” 

From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. “Good- 
bye,” she said to Margaret, and kissed her. 

And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a 
dying sea. 

“Good-bye.” 


422 


Howards End 


“Good-bye, Dolly.” 

“So long, father.” 

“Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself.” 

“Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox.” 

“Good-bye.” 

Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she 
returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. 
He was pitiably tired. But Dolly’s remark had in- 
terested her. At last she said: “Could you tell me, 
Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left 
me Howards End?” 

Tranquilly he replied: “Yes, she did. But that is a 
very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind 
to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not 
being herself at the time, scribbled ‘ Howards End ’ on a 
piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it 
was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what 
my Margaret would be to me in the future. ” 

Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in 
its inmost recesses, and she shivered. 

“I did n’t do wrong, did I?” he asked, bending down. 

“You did n’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong. ’ ’ 

From the garden came laughter. “Here they are at 
last!” exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a 
smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by 
one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There 
were shouts of infectious joy. 

“The field’s cut!” Helen cried excitedly — “the big 
meadow! We ’ve seen to the very end, and it ’ll be 
such a crop of hay as never!” 


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